Sour Air
by CloudCuckooLandHasAQueen
Summary: "No...Sherlock this has never been about you" With each passing day, Molly Hooper finds herself hurtling closer towards the point of no return even with her attempts to escape the sour air that clings to her.
1. Molly

**_Trigger Warning: Examination of Suicidal Tendencies, Depression, and Anxiety. _**

**I do not own Sherlock or the Bell Jar (referenced only)**

_You wrote a note the first time..._

It was a mistake born from seeing the plot device used so often in television and books. In actuality, a majority who manage to do it do not write a note at all. All it did was give her father a piece of paper to cling to as he sat, unable to talk or scream for fear of saying precisely the wrong thing. Even back then, laying in the hospital bed, staring at his disappointed and ultimately confused expression, Molly Hooper knew that she was next to worthless. Her little brother was at home, too distraught with his big sister's "Accident Involving A Rope." But her father did give Molly the poorly made get well card the ten year old made. She didn't say anything, couldn't say anything to justify the fact that she just felt so empty. So she sank back into the pillow, looking at the tiny blue dots on the fabric, stroking it even as she answered questions in a tiny voice that sounded nothing like her own.

"Yes."

"No."

"Thank you."

"A little, yeah."

"I'd give the pain a six."

"No thank you."

_You still can't look your father in the eye._

The nice doctor sat on the edge of her bed, flashing a brilliant white smile as if hoping it made up for his receding hairline, "Hello Molly. Would you like to tell me why you tried to do it?"

"I don't know."

"Molly, dear, most teenagers get upset from time to time."

"I'm not upset." There was no specific reason except for the darkness that came over her, and that voice that was supposed to be her guiding conscience asking her why she should bother with life at all. This was the first time she succumbed to it, and the result was her father finding her half strangled in the closet. She wasn't upset, but what was wrong? Nothing. Everything was fine. She would smile again, in fact, she was already smiling as she left the ICU, and talking and laughing with others as if it never happened.

_But it did happen..._

For her Dad, she created an illusion of almost constant happiness, pretending to react to the therapy, but ultimately still having that constant sadness cling to her. She filled the empty with constantly striving for, and achieving, good grades, going through a string of perfectly acceptable boyfriends who couldn't excite her if they lives depended on it and one bad boy who was equally boring, friends, reading, and simply constantly trying to be distracted. She never cried. Her grades were perfect. She was a good sister. She was a good daughter. But none of it was ever enough. It will never be enough. That voice will always whisper, and she would push it out of her mind until she lay awake after a long and incredibly exhausting day. Then it would come and rear it's ugly head, causing sleep to evade her further.

Molly was eighteen when her father died, and glad that he clung to life long enough for her to be old enough to take care of Evan without social services becoming involved. Her life suddenly revolved around university, work, and trying to make the money Dad left stretch as far as possible, at least until Evan himself started university. It was difficult, and more than once Molly sat contemplating a knife's razor sharp edge, or overdosing, but couldn't leave Evan to care. That would be too cruel of her. So she kept going, going, going, until he himself had gotten in and she thought she could finally relax. She thought she could finally die.

_It's not that easy, Molly Hooper..._

Whoever said a handful of pills was like going to sleep is full of shit. It hurts and when she woke up, she was surrounded by those bright lights and bleeping monitors that alerted her that sweet oblivion was ripped from her once more. Hardened nurses and arrogant doctors milled about her, spouting words that she knew from the textbooks she read. She had researched the perfect combination this time, but hadn't counted on Evan coming home that night. He sat beside her, much like her father had before, staring at her blankly before snapping into anger.

"Why?!" He shouted this over and over again, until in his tearful anger he was dragged out of the room.

After that, they gave her a cocktail of pills to make her numb and happy. For the most part, they seemed to work, helping along the primary school teacher like persona while she continued to study and eventually began to work in pathology. Her therapist didn't seem to think that working around dead bodies in a high stress environment was a good idea, but she didn't understand. High stress meant little time to think about why she was still alive, and dead bodies never asked her how her day was going. She could never be blamed for taking a life, and she could see exactly where she would be the instant she took her own. Really, life was peaceful until Sherlock Holmes blew in like a hurricane on steroids.

He excited her, puzzled her, and intrigued her. How could someone so cold have such a thrilling lust for life? Stripping away most emotions seemed to have benefited him greatly. She wondered if he had crushing loneliness with his intelligence like she did. She wondered why he never called her out on her use of antidepressants and mood stabilizers if he could apparently see everything. Slowly she came to realize that she was just a constant in his life, a rug to wipe his feet on. She let him walk all over him, hoping that tiny bit of his effortless way of simply living life would rub off on her.

_He was just so alive and he had no idea..._

For a while, it did. God, she had never been so happy, even during his crushing deductions, his constant coldness, his preference of his new flatmate over her, his poor little doormat. She went out and visited Evan and his boyfriend more often, obtained a cat to make her flat less lonely, and even started pondering having a vacation—a real vacation, somewhere far away like Australia or Argentina somewhere that would be warm during London's horrible winters. She could go for Christmas. She could afford it, her tireless workaholic behavior paid off in that regard, but for some reason she could never simply bring herself to purchase the tickets, to take that two weeks off, to renew her passport. So maybe Sherlock in all his callousness made everything bearable, but hadn't fixed her.

_Of course not, Molly, the pieces have always been too small to gather..._

Really, Molly though her unrequited love for him was a lifeline, not something to shatter her. He turned being too empty and sad to even cry to quiet nights murmuring to the cat sitting on her lap while watching Doctor Who or something equally _fun. _She even tried to date again, for once not turning down someone, and deciding she could at least try a bit with Jim from IT. Too bad he turned out to be a homosexual psychopath intent upon blowing up Sherlock and company. She, of course, wasn't included in said company.

Although he did show up at her door just when she was about to resume her routine of cat and Doctor who, soaking wet. Molly let him in and watched him as he paced back and forth, his mouth twitching the way it did when he wanted to say something but couldn't formulate words fast enough for his racing brain. She simply retreated, taking a towel from the closet and holding it out to him. Eyes slightly widened, he took it as she sat down on the sofa.

"The man that you had been interacting with outside of work turned out to be James Moriarty, Molly."

It was funny how she wasn't too surprised, in fact she simply felt cold. "Oh. Okay." She turned the volume on her telly up a bit. "Night Sherlock."

_Moriarty knew you wanted to die, Molly. He knew, but wouldn't let you..._

She knew he was puzzled, but left all the same. Life resumed after that confirmation that love was never in the cards for Molly Hooper. Unexpectantly, that brought her some semblance of relief. Evan was worried, rushing in to talk to her, but she just threw her arms around him with a smile and a laugh in the morgue, disrupting Sherlock during his experiment. He said nothing and even as Evan and Molly chattered as they left, she could still feel his eyes burning the back of her skull. It was very much clear that he was still confused by her behavior, her lack of reaction, but she didn't care. She found that she wasn't much caring about anything anymore.

Evan fidgeted with his shirt collar uncomfortably, "So…how are you Molly?"

There was an unspoken comment shared between them. It was the anniversary of her last suicide attempt, and she sat before him smiling like she always has. Molly knew it unnerved him how she could smile even when she was completely miserable. She knew that if she responded with "fine" he would know that he gained nothing out of the conversation, so instead, she decided to voice her cautious hope, "I'm…I don't know. I think I'm—happier now. Well no, that's not quite the way to put it…I suppose it's the best word I've got though."

"I'm so glad." He puts a hand over hers, "Just…take it easy okay?"

"Always, Evan." She looked down at her coffee, "So…yeah. Insane psychopaths manipulating me aside, things have been…fine."

"Actually, I've been meaning to ask something, Molly." She perked up at that, gesturing for him to continue, "Have you ever thought of—I dunno, doing something else? You'd be able to just be a family doctor and help people—"

And leave Sherlock? The reason for this light feeling in her chest? "No." Her voice was flat.

"But you're surrounded by the dead all day, and that Sherlock Holmes fellow seems to be getting you into trouble—"

"He keeps me busy." That was almost the whole of it. He kept her busy with his constant and intense energy. That wasn't to mention the small pleasant ache in her chest or the sexual attraction, or just how energizing it could be just to be in his presence, "Besides…I like my job. I help people there, believe it or not. Busy is nice. Busy is what I need."

"You always say that."

"I've been fine, Evan, fine right where I am."

"Fine…"

_Molly and Sherlock sitting in a tree, _

_Definitely not Kissing,_

_He holds the knife and the rope,_

_Doesn't know how to fix what's broke..._

More time passed, and Molly found herself staring at the dead woman Sherlock was able to identify without a face. The Christmas party had been awful, taking her down from the few fantasies she could cling to. Sherlock wasn't her savior; he was just a man, a man oblivious to her pain. He knocked himself off the pedestal she placed him on for so long. He was just a man. A stupidly brilliant man, but just a man all the same. She didn't blame him, not really, and the way he apologized practically snapped the few strings left holding her heart together. Yet still, she stuck around. The cuts and burns up her legs, however, told her that she was hurtling straight towards a dead end.

"I don't count."

_I wholeheartedly agree, Molly._

He denied it later, when he needed her help, help that she so willingly gave. It was easy, to help the one man that somehow made life worth living, however the two weeks he spent recovering in her flat were less so. Why he didn't simply use a safe house that his brother would no doubt provide, she didn't know. Molly hid her prescriptions in her purse, for some reason still not wanting Sherlock to know anything other than the cheerful girl in the morgue with the shitty blog and the cat. Watching him interact with her cat was oddly pleasing, another reminder that he was simply human. Another notable conversation was about a well-read book constantly resting on her nightstand.

"What is this?"

"The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. It says it right there in the title, Sherlock." She smiled at him, taking the book from him fondly, "I love this book."

"Obviously, but why?"

"Are you that bored?"

"Yes."

Molly sighed, taking a deep shaky breath before beginning, thumbing through the pages of the hardback, "It's about this girl. She's brilliant, talented, beautiful and successful, but she has this darkness about her. It clings to her wherever she goes. Her life feels empty, and she starts having this breakdown. Everything becomes meaningless and without color, and she tries to die eventually. It's based on Plath's personal experiences."

"Why is it called the Bell Jar?"

"Because Ester compares her madness and her sadness to a bell jar. No matter where she is, it distorts her life, and she can only breath the sour air inside of it." Molly sighed, "In the last chapter she states 'To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.' And also 'How did I know that someday—at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere—the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn't descend again?'"

"So does it?"

"Huh?"

"You said this was based on the author's experiences, does she turn out fine?"

"Well she's fine for a while. She eventually marries a British writer and they have a family."

"So she got a nice boring life in the end? What you would call a 'happily ever after?'"

"No. I said for a while. The bell jar came down again and she stuck her head in the oven. Death by carbon monoxide poisoning. The bad dream came back."

Sherlock was oddly quiet for the rest of the night, watching her as she read.

Sherlock planned to leave without saying goodbye. He just planned to up and leave without another word. Of course he did, he didn't do sentiment, and he certainly wasn't sentimental about her. Yet she couldn't help but launch herself at his retreating figure, wrapping her arms around him, "Don't you dare leave without saying goodbye. I-I know that you have to go, but please, say goodbye."

"Molly. Stop being ridiculous."

"Sherlock, stop being _you _for a moment and just indulge me. You can't tell me where you're going, or what you're doing, or how long you'll be gone, but you can tell me goodbye. It doesn't hurt. It's just two syllables. Good-bye."

"It does." He turned around, his hands placed on her shoulders to separate them, and she found herself staring into his eye—those eyes that tormented her, forcing her to keep going each day, as she always had. Stupid as it was, she would most likely break down the moment he left. She would race around the flat in a frenzy, looking for something—even though she had removed all sharp objects, separated the pills and placed them in different parts of the flat. Then the feeling would subside, and she would simply make herself go to sleep, and wake up in the morning groggy and tearful.

_Weak little Molly wants a goodbye from her lifeline. Planning anything big then?_

So lost in her own thoughts she barely heard him speak "What?"

"It does. Hurt that is." Sherlock's face was much like when he was in the lab, and thought John wasn't looking, "Saying goodbye is too final for my tastes. I'm coming back. There's no need to—"

Molly hoisted herself up on her toes and kissed his cheek, "Goodbye, Sherlock. Be safe. Just—be safe."

He nodded, and jumped as if just realizing that his hands were on her shoulders, retracting them, "Thank you, Molly."

And then he was gone.

He was gone two years, and in those two years only came back four times. In between those times it felt as if a great haze was veiled over her world. Molly caught a glimpse of what it would look like if she was gone. There would be mourning, grieving, and eventually, moving on. People looked at her sympathetically for her unabashed crush on the (not) fraudulent and very much (not) dead consulting detective. She didn't need it. She didn't need them. She only needed to get through the day. Bird by bird, day by day, her life slowly inched by. Her medicine was adjusted twice. Evan came in, sure she would snap with the death of Sherlock Holmes.

_But you didn't Molly..._

She always had a tiny bit of hope that she would see him in her flat. It was that tiny bit of hope that was flaying her alive. Molly hoped for a better tomorrow, which is why she clung so hard to the present. She clung to this idea that everything would go back to normal the instant Sherlock came back. She would live for his brilliance until she was finally stretched so thin she might indulge in a more violent form of ending. Except, John was getting married to a young nurse, Mike was transferring to another hospital, and Lestrade had actually permanently divorced his wife. Yet she still clung to that hope. This was her task, to get by, even if it was only barely. The downward spiral wasn't prompted by something he said or his absence, or any other outside force. It was her letting go of that hope.

_It's about time Molly; you were pretty pathetic with a crush and a routine being the only thing you live for._

But then he was there, in his excitement his eyes skipping over her shaking hands, and pulling her into a crushing embrace.

"It's done." Sherlock clung to her tightly, almost painfully from behind, a strange reversed rendition of her goodbye years previously.

"I'm glad." Molly whispered back. "How did John react?"

"I haven't told him. No one else knows I'm alive yet."

"Oh." She felt him bury his head into her neck, and his next few words felt like a kiss as his lips moved against her skin, "I came to retract that goodbye of yours. It's no longer necessary I'd say." He forced her to turn around in his strange, awkward embrace. "Let's never say goodbye again."

Molly wasn't so sure. Goodbyes were always necessary, but why was he doing this? Why was he saying this? Why was he looking at her like that? It head was splitting, she thought it might explode. She felt light and dizzy, reacting to his touch, her world swaying before the pain in her abdomen took over. Crying out, she clutched his shoulders, her knees failing her. Oh it hurt, it hurt so badly, and what upset her more was the fact that he came home. Distantly, Molly heard him calling out her name, felt panicked shaking hands helping her to the floor before they found the empty prescription bottles and the phone to dial 999. She vomited once before falling into the sweet clutches of darkness.

_I'm not dead._

It was her own thoughts, not the little train of thought that always referred to herself in the second person. This was her first thought upon waking up, blinking at the ceiling. It was such a heartbreakingly familiar situation. She would wake up with someone who loved her ready to berate her. Why couldn't she ever get it right? If only she had the heart to rip open her own veins, if only she could throw herself off a building, or somehow obtain a gun. But she didn't want a mess. Honestly she was a doctor! She had the combination just right! But she hadn't counted on Sherlock to be there, just a few minutes after she had consumed the mixture pill by pill, just to ensure her body wouldn't immediately purge it. She thought the third time would be the trick.

_Evidently not. You're a doctor and you're still really shitty at this..._

A firm hand clutched her own, so tightly she thought it might break. She blinked, letting her head roll off to the side to see Sherlock. He sat there, sitting, that expression he had when he was deducing plain on his face. Molly snorted slightly, despite the pain upon looking at him, "What do you find amusing, Molly? _Nothing about this is amusing, Molly!_" he spoke through his teeth then.

Her voice was dry and hoarse, one of the smaller side effects of the pills and of sleeping for no doubt a long period of time, "Before, there was always someone stupid enough to love me sitting there. Now it's just you." Her quiet laughter seemed to have broken something, his expression twitched and suddenly his grip on her hand became painful before loosening. "How's John?"

"Your idiotic decision to end your own life has forced me to put it off."

"Sherlock I-"

"What did I do?" He asked quietly, drawing his hands in his lap, looking akin to a child in trouble.

Molly found herself smiling a sad little smile in return, "Nothing, Sherlock."

"No, there's always something. There's always something that I've done. You—this—" he gestured around wildly, before sliding his hand across her leg to feel the ridges and bumps of scars and burns, "these—they're my fault. All my fault. "I would do anything for you _never_ to do this again." If it weren't for his voice cracking on the last word, he sounded just as he always did. "Why? Tell me why, I'll fix it, this is my fault this—"

"No…Sherlock this has never been about you." Molly slumped back into her pillows, silently wishing he would leave, but of course he didn't, taking her hand in his again, this time gentle, as if she might shatter at the touch.

"I broke you."

"You can't break something that was already broken, Sherlock. Y-you've read my medical history." He scowled, "Don't look at me like th-that Sherlock, I know you and I know your brother."

"They changed your antidepressants and dosage, and you reacted badly."

"That's what happens when you mess with chemicals in an already messed up head. It's all chemicals, and mine are just screwed up." Molly turned, curling up on her side away from him, the loss of his hand oddly satisfying. It was his fault she was still there, it was always his fault. She wasn't thinking properly—oh but she never did—and couldn't say another word to him She felt small and disgusting lying there. She wanted her mum; no she wanted her dad, or Evan or anyone other than Sherlock. Why did it have to be him?

There was a shift, and the mattress dipped slightly beneath Sherlock's weight as he settled down on the edge of the bed, and placed a tentative hand on her waist, "Molly Hooper…you frightened me. I thought you were going to die. I don't want you to die."

She never thought she would have this conversation with Sherlock, sighing, she rolled over and faced him, touching his hand with her own, "I'm alive now."

_Please understand that this is all I can promise for now. _

"Molly please." He laid down on the bed beside her, pressing a kiss to her tear streaked cheek, "You know how much I hate goodbyes."

**So I decided to write this because of a story idea I have for National Novel Writing Month, and I wanted to see if I was capable of doing something so dark and so close to home. The answer is yes and I found that it was an almost cathartic experience for me. I wanted to write this using Molly because while I adore her, I have trouble believing her world is all puppies and unicorns and acting like a misplaced kindergarten teacher. I also wanted to give a realistic portrayal of depression and suicidal tendencies. I wanted to show how there are not quick fixes. The pills don't always magically make you happy. Love, while it can lighten your heart considerably, does not always chase away the darkness that clings to you day in and day out. I draw on many of my own experiences and that of others to show that for people like this Molly (and Sylvia Plath's Ester, as well as myself) fear that the sour air will come back no matter where they are or what they're doing.**

**Thank you for reading, and thank you even more if you read the explanation and even more so if you reviewed. **


	2. Sherlock

**I decided to write from Sherlock's perspective this time, and with a slightly different style as Sherlock won't have that little voice in his head undermining his own confidence (obviously) and to try and get a point of view of the person that Molly's behavior could affect negatively and positively. I have no idea if I will continue further (perhaps with one-shots showing a progression of their life) as that will largely depend on what reviewers say.**

Sherlock Holmes was…upset. Yes, that seemed to be a suitable word for it, especially after all the other nameless and intense feelings rushing through him had subsided. Sleeping next to him was a quiet and peaceful Molly; her quiet breathing could only be heard in between the bleeping monitors reminding him that she was alive. He wanted to delete their reunion from his mind palace entirely, but he clung to it, every piece of it refusing to go away. In all of the scenarios that he imagined their reunion—something he did often when he could not alleviate his boredom with something that seemed more like himself, or admittedly when he was frustrated with being unable to untangle the mess Moriarty left behind—he always thought she would be so pleased to see him and even more pleased that he was finished, actually properly almost miraculously finished.

It started out properly. He picked the lock on her flat (child's play, he really needed to change them for her) and walked into her dark flat, hearing her do something in the kitchen. This meant that she was awake. Calmly he waited and this always became the part where he would become oddly fuzzy on the details. Sherlock didn't know how much he actually wanted to simply hold her, to declare his victory, until he saw her shuffle past, no doubt to the bedroom in order to fall asleep, completely unaware of his presence. He used this to his advantage to hug her, not directly around the middle as she did, but around her shoulders, clasping his hands over her chest. He muttered about his victory—his soon to be resurrection—Sherlock unconsciously laid kisses to her neck as he spoke, becoming more confused with this reunion.

Of course he had expected her reunion to be different, considering the fact that she knew he was alive. Yet he didn't expect her to seem so cold and distant, three steps behind him with every reaction nor did he expect the scent of alcohol on her breath. He expected crying, an accidental kiss on the cheek, embarrassment, flushing, and this embrace. The embrace seemed to be the only part he was accurate on, and it seemed like he was the one far more enthusiastic in the action. He was about to pull away when she suddenly stiffened, shrieking in pain. She sank grasping his lapels halfheartedly, tears running down her face and her eyes—_Oh God her eyes—_were so blank. Her pupils were huge. Her convulsions worsened causing him to almost drop her, but as quickly and gently as possible he placed her on the ground, cursing his hands for shaking as he dashed to the phone, in the process finding the empty pill bottles, and the vodka he smelled before.

Antidepressants. Alcohol. Narcotics.

It was taking too long for a first responder to pick up, but he quickly calculated how quickly he'd be able to get Molly to a hospital. An ambulance rushing through the night streets would get there faster than any cab, no matter how much the incentive. He would have trouble hailing a cab anyway on this street, especially in the middle of the night, and calling had the same difficulties as an ambulance. Finally an abrupt sounding woman was on the phone and he returned to Molly at a record speed. She was breathing and he changed her position to a better one that would prepare her for breathing and the possibility of vomiting. Almost upon his thinking of that, her eyes snapped open and she threw up water and a partially digested late dinner.

"Molly, Molly, please stay with me, you're going to be fine. Molly?" He was panicking, damn it, he was panicking. Illogical thoughts were rushing through his mind along with the most prevalent question:

Why would she do that? Nearly any idiot would know that mixing antidepressants and alcohol was bad enough, and a doctor certainly would know not to throw in narcotics and—No. It was impossible, but was it? Molly, laying there, unconscious by then, couldn't have—but all the evidence pointed towards it. Molly Hooper tried to commit suicide, and came quite close to succeeding. If he hadn't come that night, no doubt he would have found her in the morning, stiff in her bed…not breathing. Molly not breathing was something he couldn't wrap his mind around. The data did not compute, she was always there, she _always _counted. She could detect his moods better than anyone—even John, possibly even his brother. She gave him the access to the morgue and body parts without hindering him in any way. She helped him fake his death! Molly not breathing was an unfathomable scenario. Molly being dead with her ashes buried in the cemetery and her stone saying something ultimately cheesy and unfulfilling that her younger brother picked out was one he didn't even want to touch one.

"Molly, you idiot, you stupid bloody idiot..." He muttered, still checking her breath, every moment until the paramedics finally arrived feeling like an eternity.

He made up a lie to stay with her throughout, and that had eventually lead him to calling Mycroft, getting some strings pulled, and allowing him to lie next to her in her hospital bed, rules and regulations be damned.

"Sherlock." John's voice wafted in, and although Sherlock could see him standing at the foot of Molly's bed out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock said nothing in return. This reunion would be very different too. He expected a punch and yelling; not a hushed voice in the hospital fearful of awaking the occupant, "Mycroft texted me to come here. I didn't realize it until I saw you. Molly…is she okay?"

Carefully, Sherlock removed himself from her bed, readjusting the covers surrounding her, and turning to look at John, "Physically yes…the rest is up for debate."

Slowly, John Watson approached him, and threw his arms around Sherlock, "Glad you're not dead, mate." Evidently, Sherlock was wrong about quite a few things.

Sherlock still found himself at a loss for words, and was distracted by Molly stirring behind him. He turned around, only to find that she was turning outward, curling up into an even smaller ball. With a few steps he was by her side again, drawing up the blankets and tucking them in around her properly. Obviously she was a bit cold, and the thermostat had already been adjusted. He would have to request another blanket before he got back to the hotel to change clothes and take a shower.

"I never would have pinned Molly for the type to—"

"Three official suicide attempts, not counting the five or six times that she was talked down from it by her younger brother." Sherlock interrupted, "She was on antidepressants, anti-anxiety, and at one point a mood stabilizer commonly used in bipolar patients. She has resorted to self-harm as of late, but within the past seven years she showed promise and improvement." Sherlock felt his voice crack. "And then we have the third attempt, and it would have worked. Even with my interference, she almost died in the hospital."

"Thank God you crash in unexpectedly all the time." John yawned, giving a small stretch and a sigh, "Sherlock, you should probably go home. I'm not living there anymore, but your things are still at 221B."

"No."

"Molly will be fine if you're gone a couple hours. Mycroft will want to talk to you, you must tell Lestrade, and oh God Mrs. Hudson and-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "There will be plenty of-"

"You will _not _let them find out through the news."

He did have a point. So Sherlock cast one final glance at the pathologist sleeping alone in the bed and left with John, tuning out his idle prattling. The reunions, one by one, were supposed to be boring. However he found that Lestrade nearly fainted and then ran his mouth for about thirty minutes, and in the morning when Sherlock decided to come to Mrs. Hudson (gently, she was getting rather old) she simply shrugged, pinched his cheek, and told him that she made biscuits. No reaction seemed to be going the way he planned. John didn't punch him, Lestrade didn't get as verbally abusive as predicted, Mrs. Hudson didn't faint or go into shock, and Molly...well Molly simply didn't act like Molly. After Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock decided to return to Molly's flat. He fed the cat and began to pick around. Of course, he had been there before, he even stayed there two weeks, but he still found that he only saw and didn't observe.

Molly left an array of pills in the medicine cabinets. Some were prescribed by her therapist, others were old prescriptions and pills slipped to her by others in the hospital. She must have cleared out her collection and kept them in her purse when he was there. She knew he wouldn't rifle through it after she flipped out on him and explained the social conventions about _not _going through a woman's purse without cause, and that cause could not be boredom. That was particularly clever of her and probably purposefully engineered. She really didn't want Sherlock examining her life more, although when he did, her careful precautions crumbled.

Molly Hooper tried to commit suicide three times and she was diagnosed with clinical depression when she was fourteen years old. It worsened, but she got impeccable marks up until her father died. Then she worked to support her brother, let her marks slip a little, but still got into university. She worked until her brother was eighteen, and that was when she tried again. At that time, it appeared as if she felt like she was no longer needed or thought it was more acceptable if Evan Hooper could take care of himself. After that, she got through medical school flying higher than a kite. By the time she met him, she had only stopped abusing her medical connections for a year. The odd part was how easily she managed to abandon it altogether. He would have expected some relapse in her record, but she had been doing better-fine even, up until the moment she started convulsing right in front of him.

He spotted the stain on the floor, as no one had bothered to clean it up. Usually he wouldn't have bothered with trivial things such as cleaning, but when Molly got home, he really didn't want her to be greeted by a set in vomit stain. So Sherlock got to work scrubbing it, occasionally interrupted by the cat sticking his face into the mess in an attempt to figure out what he was doing. Concluding that endeavor, he left, deciding that it would be best to return to Molly before the media frenzy set in.

Cheerful little Molly Hooper was back when he returned, chattering to a nurse about some random show they shared a mutual liking of. She immediately froze mid-sentence upon seeing him, "Oh Sherlock! You're back! How is everything?"

It was only someone like Molly that could sit in a hospital bed and ask a perfectly healthy man about how he was doing, "As well as expected."

"Oh I hope that's good then!" The nurse gave him a small nod and a squeak before scurrying off, irritating him immensely.

Like the night before, Sherlock settled on the side of the bed, right next to her, "I brought you these. They were the most well read books in your flat."

With that, he produced three books from his coat. _Hamlet, The Bell Jar, and Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy. _Of these, he only knew about the _Be__ll Jar _because he never bothered to delete Molly's description of it, and he vaguely knew that _Hamlet _was a play by that Shakespeare fellow. While he was sure he learned about it in school, he certainly deleted it as knowledge of the playwright never came up in a case. Molly squealed, taking them, "Hitchhiker's is hysterical. They made a movie once. The guy who played Arthur Dent looks a wee bit like John. Oh and Hamlet, so tragic..so odd to be perfectly honest. I went and saw it live again just a couple months ago. It's almost as fun as watching a production of MacBeth." She chattered and stuttered much like before and Sherlock found it unbearable that she was absolutely as she was before. She was suddenly small, shy, stuttering Molly Hooper all over again, and he was unable to trick her into actually displaying or even admitting what she truly felt.

Eventually, after a long bout of silence punctuated by Molly's frequent giggles at whatever was on the page, Sherlock left. He would have to wait to collect more data on the subject.

With newly adjusted medication and promise to attend both therapy and group therapy as well as take a month off work, Molly was released from the hospital. At first Sherlock had no idea what to do other than admittedly follow her around, remaining completely underfoot most of the time. Molly was clearly annoyed by the development, but she ignored him as she went about her day, desperately trying to find things to do. A bored Molly wasn't someone Sherlock was used to. Obviously a great amount of her energy went into her work, so when that was removed she became so antsy it rivaled his own boredom. He came to the conclusion that he was practically living in her flat when he realized he had made no move to return to 221B and hadn't revisited that pesky hotel room since he returned to the living. Once Mycroft forced him to do some sort of press conference, but as soon as it was over he rushed back to Molly. Of course, she hadn't been doing anything particularly stupid in his absence, she was just reading with the television on as background noise, but it still seemed _wrong _to leave her alone.

He had one instance where he thought Molly would still hurt herself. Sherlock awoke from one of his rare moments of sleeping to find that the only other occupant of the flat was that dreadfully fat cat. Noting that he would have to discuss Toby's eating habits with Molly, he grabbed his coat knowing that his first priority would be to track Molly down. Where would she be? The time of night didn't suggest anything mundane like getting food, going shopping, or visiting a park, leaving him with a sickening feeling. Once outside the building, he looked up and found the outline of a figure sitting on the edge. Up was always a clever place to hide. It's in plain sight, but people rarely ever thought to look there. With a smirk, Sherlock climbed the stairs skipping several steps in his haste to reach the top, and opened the door to the roof.

Molly jumped-an accurate term to use, but probably inappropriate considering the circumstances-and craned her head to face him, "You were asleep."

"Not anymore."

She turned away, no doubt staring at the street below. Sherlock settled down beside her, "You don't actually want to jump. You don't want a mess other people would have to clean up and you don't want to psychologically scar any of the many small children that are around here."

"I just came up to think and be alone, is all." Molly kicked her feet, "I don't need you babysitting me, Sherlock."

"I'm-"

"You've been 'alive' a month and haven't even attempted to go back to taking cases. It's not right. I know you don't like change and you want everything to go back to normal. It won't, but it's sad that you're not even trying, not to mention weird. You made me coffee the other day. Nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Molly, no one is forcing me to stay here." She looked so pale and small, shivering in that awful cherry covered jumper of hers and a little voice in the back of his head told him it would be proper to give her his coat. As she replied, he shrugged it off and put it over her shoulders.

"You're punishing yourself. You still think it's your fault." She giggled a little, "You've got a bit of an ego, don't you?" Still, she hugged the coat around herself like a blanket, smelling it, "You've been smoking again."

"There's two details that I've missed, Molly. Don't bother lying to me."

"When have I ever lied to you, Sherlock?" He could name a few instances in which he only realized she was lying in hindsight, but Sherlock didn't want Molly to know she had that power over him. His crippling lack of perception when it came to Molly was almost deadly this time around.

He only rolled his eyes to acknowledge that comment, "Firstly, why haven't you relapsed in the past seven years and secondly why did you do it that night?"

Molly looked down again, clinging the coat tighter to her small frame, "I...it's hard to describe...I felt like I was being crushed alive suddenly. It was...I don't know it was just suddenly harder."

"What was?" These were feelings, and Sherlock didn't do well with delving into them. This was almost completely uncharted territory for him. He realized that John had only shown him the tip of the iceberg in that respect.

"Living life. Waking up, doing what needs to be done to continue my existence, it was all too much. So I took the day off work, slept for most of it, drank for the other half, and the rest is history."

"I don't understand."

"I know you don't."

"I'm ill equipped for this."

"Frankly that's a relief. You being nice is strange enough."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. He hadn't been particularly nice. He practically stalked her and blurted out his deductions to her face without so much as a thought, still angry because he had missed such a fundamental part of her nature, "Molly I'm so-"

"Forgiven. I like you because you won't pretend to understand like everyone else does. They all assume too much. You only state what you know and admit to knowing nothing in my case. That's a comfort. Really. Truly." Molly interrupted, the firmness of her voice surprising him a bit. This woman seemed to be the biggest 'always something' Sherlock had.

"You haven't answered my first question."

"That's because I'm still trying to figure out why myself." She fell silent for exactly two minutes before straightening up, "You."

"Pardon?"

"And here I thought you were clever." Molly teased, leaning over and kissing his cheek, "I was happier because of you."

With that, Molly left him with his thoughts. Usually, getting answers satisfied Sherlock. But with Molly, the more answers he received, the more questions he had. When Molly was in the hospital, Sherlock had examined all their previous encounters and assumed that if anything, he made Molly more miserable. But with this answer, Sherlock was stumped. How could he have possibly made her a happier person? He was at best supremely rude and at worst a nightmare to be around. Yet for some reason her silly little crush persisted and she allowed him to have free run in the lab and the morgue, and she still helped him fake his death even after the letting her date a psychopath and the Christmas episode... Christmas, oh how he would like to delete that, but that memory still remained snug, locked in the cellar of his mind palace. He didn't understand, then again, Molly subtly hinted that he wasn't supposed to; she didn't expect him to. She never really expected anything from him, which he supposed was a nice change from people constantly wishing for his brilliant mind to help them or wishing for him to shut up.

The next day, Molly was in an inexplicably good mood. She tittered about her flat, tried yet again to fruitlessly scrub some some stains from her carpet, and cleaned her bath for the third time in three days. Around noon, Molly settled at the kitchen table with her laptop open, and of course, being Sherlock, he glanced over her shoulder, "You're thinking about moving flats."

"Too many bad memories. Besides, the carpet is dreadful. I really got something typical of someone who has student loans to pay off, but my inheritance barely covered the expense of uni so I've been sitting around and saving a bunch of extra money for no real reason." She smiled a little, continuing to scroll through numerous listings.

Sherlock cleared his throat, as usual his mouth working faster than the conscience that sounded suspiciously like John that would tell him to stop and actually think about whatever was going to come tumbling out, "John's moved out of Baker Street because of his latest and longer lasting sexual partner. I prefer having a flatmate. We practically already are."

"You're asking me to move in with you in your weird Sherlockian way, aren't you?" She paused, turning and looking at him in the eye, her posture closed off with her arms crossed as if guarding herself.

"It's quite logical and you would actually be paying less in rent than you do here."

"Sherlock, you can't hang around me, always watching, always listening, always waiting. I prefer being alone and I'd rather not have you experimenting on my cat. I really don't know why I've been tolerating you so long anyway."

"Because you like me. And I am quite capable of almost constant surveillance for the rest of your life."

"You'll get bored...annnd that's a little creepy."

"Try me." While sad Molly probably wouldn't affect the outcome of his investigations as she seemed obsessed with working away her life, he didn't like a sad Molly and wanted to remedy the situation. She said he made her happy so it should be a clear course of action to live together...at least to him. He frowned, trying to figure out why this wouldn't make sense to Molly.

Molly sighed, exasperated, closing her laptop and walking away. Even after she had closed it, Sherlock got on and tried several times to figure out her password. Six tries. Seven tries. Eight tries nine tries... "Sherlock my password is l942G uppercase and then 65trd1 and no I'm not living at 221B with you, so please forget that silly idea!"

"Clever password with insignificant numbers and letters? Who would have thought?"

"I heard that!"

He still reopened the real estate site tab, and without a moment's thought readjusted the filters to buying instead of renting, to houses instead of flats, and figured in his largely untouched trust fund (Mycroft had seen to that after Sherlock used a sizable amount for the purchase of drugs, but he was sure that at five years clean Mycroft would be willing to negotiate) allowing him to raise the price allowance considerably. Full houses in London were anything but cheap but he knew Molly preferred having a garden. Gardens were good and full of life and it would make getting a dog possible. That would force Molly to have to take care of something outside of her work. He would also make sure to install good and proper locks that would take more than a minute to pick. 221B could be kept and simply be an office of sorts. It was only after he had found a half dozen appropriate listings (not too horrible of a commute, aesthetically pleasing, at least a back garden, sizable enough for their hobbies) that he realized he was operating purely off of sentiment, assumptions, and deductions about Molly (that has gone over horribly before). At this point, he would have let Molly paint every room in 221B pink if it would make her happy. He shuddered. Mycroft would laugh the moment he caught wind of this and Molly would refuse point blank.

Those details still didn't prevent him from saving the listings though.

He needed to consult John on the matter.

**So woot...I continued this. I wasn't really sure about doing so, but I still find it pleasant and many requested that this be at least a two-shot.**

** So to continue or not to continue,**

** that is the question,**

** whether tis nobler in the mind to write fanfiction,**

** when I should be working on homework, **

**or to take arms against a sea of procrastination,**

** and by opposing end it?**

**...heh I feel clever.**


	3. The Favorite Shirt And Onions

**This is really soon but I couldn't help but write it, and why should I deprive the wonderful public? **

**So random bit no one cares about: My mom and I made Jägerschnitzel the other day! It's a German dish that roughly translates to hunter's schnitzel. Basically it requires beating the shit out of pork, cooking it to perfection, and covering it with a mushroom sauce. I love German food in the fall and winter because it's heavy and warm and filling, not to mention all the rum and beer Germans throw in. Well enough about that, try cooking some schnitzel in your free time, and enjoy more of my story!**

_Rise and shine, Molly, time to make the idiot in the next room some coffee…._

Molly glanced over at the clock. She had already slept in two hours, but didn't particularly have the urge to climb out of bed and start the day. There was no work to look forward to and Sherlock had proven himself quite capable of feeding Toby. She decided that rolling over and falling back asleep would be the best course of action. Sherlock was becoming a problem. No, Sherlock was more than a problem; He was living with her. Contrary to what others believed about her, Molly never fantasized about that, and the circumstances were even more bizarre. The brilliant consulting detective (who wasn't doing much consulting as of late) was sleeping on her sofa, chipping in on the shopping, and playing violin at odd hours of the night. The violin was something she could live with, as it was often soothing, but Molly was growing tired of having his presence—of having any presence.

_So Molly, care to tell me why you reach out to people if all you want is to be alone?_

"Molly, you have received ample sleep in the past twenty four hours." Sherlock obviously considered himself above knocking and minding his own business.

With a groan, Molly rolled over and drew the covers tighter around her body, "Sherlock. I know for a fact that Lestrade wants you on a case that is at a nine on your scale. If you don't leave right now, I'm going to throttle you."

"Seeing as that is an empty threat considering your size—"

"I'll drug your coffee first. Anyway, I really just want to be alone right now. I'm probably not even going to leave my flat today…or tomorrow…or the next day…so text him back already."

She heard Sherlock retreat, the door slamming so hard that the pictures on her wall rattled. Molly frowned to herself, finding that she was incapable of falling asleep once more, but still didn't want to get up. Sighing, she rolled to look up at her ceiling. Once, long ago, when Molly had just gotten home from the hospital when she was fourteen, her brother had this silly idea. He took pictures of everything he could think of that Molly found nice and pasted it to the ceiling over her bed. Evan thought it would make her feel better. It had been a good idea, really it had been, but when she stared upwards at night, all she could think about was how horrible it was that her brother—who didn't even know she tried to hang herself—would have had to be told about her demise if she succeeded. The pictures of trees and kittens and La Boca in Buenos Aires Argentina were just a constant reminder of that guilt. She took it down after just three days.

With new resolve, Molly sat up and grabbed for her laptop, searching and printing off a bunch of pictures. There were a few of Evan and his boyfriend David that she got from Facebook, a couple of various landmarks in Argentina and Peru that she knew she really needed to see like Machu Picchu and Lake Titicaca, and a few pictures of kittens and puppies, more specifically Toby. Molly went ahead and taped them to the ceiling above her bed, and thinking a bit further upon it, printed out that picture of Sherlock in the ridiculous deerstalker hat to place at the corner of her picture ceiling. Satisfied with her work, Molly decided that this was enough encouragement to move to the sofa to watch some telly and eat something. By that point it was already the afternoon. If Molly wasn't careful, she would continue this lethargy past her mandatory time off, and try never leaving the flat again.

_When you go outside you will see a cruel world…_

Molly had resolved to work against that train of thought. With painstaking effort, she dragged herself to the loo and raked a hairbrush through her hair, catching a glimpse of what she looked like. Pale, raggedy, spindly, with dark purple circles beneath her eyes. Most of the time she knew she wasn't particularly ugly, but sometimes she felt as if she was viewing herself through a funhouse mirror. That mirror distorted the world around her as well, placing Sherlock on a pedestal or downgrading Evan's attempts to help her despite the fact that he lived in Glasgow and was perfectly capable of having a happy selfish life without her. Shrugging, Molly reached for her largely untouched makeup bag, and slowly went about painting her face with meticulous detail.

She searched through her closet and dressed up in a tunic, some leggings, and some boots before looking in the funhouse mirror once more and determining that it was as good as it was going to get.

Molly put on her coat and walked down her building's stairs, feeling a rush of cold air hit her the instant she was outside. She didn't really know where she was going, but found comfort in being alone and having no one on the street really care about her. It was her first Sherlock free day and as he was highly unpredictable, she wasn't going to waste it. When the street became a boring place to wander she walked into a random sandwich shop, sitting down to order a meal. It was a quaint quiet sort of place with only a few other people occupying it as it was in that awkward place between lunch and dinner. She ate about half the sandwich before wandering out into the street again.

A tired looking woman pushed a pram with a screaming baby past her while she was sitting in a park. It probably wasn't very normal, but Molly found the idea of having a child nauseating. She was a scientist, but still didn't like the idea of having a fetus grow in her stomach and wreck her body to get out into the world. The infant was still screeching, the woman still looking quite haggard, and Molly was considering leaving the otherwise comfortable perch. Babies themselves were odd creatures to behold, with their fuzzy heads and big eyes. When coworkers had babies and invited Molly over on occasion, for some reason they believed that she would have some sort of motherly instinct and take an instant liking to it. They didn't realize that Molly internally panicked the moment the brat was dumped in her arms.

_How the hell are you supposed to hold it anyway?_

Even without the squalling—Molly had always preferred quiet—there was the fact that for a moment she was charged with the safety of an incredibly fragile creature. She had seen countless babies in the morgue, their lives terminated almost instantly by the simplest of things, sometimes the strangest. Sudden Infant Death syndrome was probably the worst, as the cause is highly unknown, and she couldn't even tell the grieving parents what went wrong. Why get so attached to something that could just die on you? On top of that, Molly knew she would be a horrible mother; she could barely take care of a cat and keep the plants on her windowsill alive. It would be a disaster—and oh God the woman with the stroller was coming over.

She settled down and gave Molly a tired smile, "Sorry about the noise, Sophie here was being fussy."

Before Molly could stop herself, she had a bit of a Sherlock moment, "Why did you name your daughter one of the most common names in the English speaking world?"

The woman blinked, "It's a pretty name…and my grandmother's name." Her voice faltered slightly, "Her middle name's Minerva…."

"Oh they both mean wise. That's a bit clever."

"Honestly I wanted Minerva for the first name, but Ted wouldn't let me."

"I'd say that's bull. You're the mum, call her what you'd like. Minney for short, I dunno." Molly internally groaned; why did she initiate this conversation?"

"Minney…heh I like that a lot better uh Miss—"

"Oh sorry!" Molly giggled, "Molly Hooper, random stranger commenting on your baby's name in the park."

"Elena Marsham. And it's okay, everyone has an opinion for what you're supposed to do with a baby. How many little one's do you have?"

There it was again: _the assumption _"Oh! Haha no I don't have any."

"Work too much? Haven't met that special someone?"

Molly frowned. This was where she could tell the truth or agree with her, "Well my job isn't too demanding, and I haven't really met anyone, but I really just don't like babies—oh God that sounds horrible doesn't it? That's like kicking puppies and—"

"Relax." Elena patted Molly's shoulder, before lifting her baby and settling her on Molly's lap, "Babies are simple. Like kittens—well kittens that are furless…okay you get my point."

Sophie Minerva Marsham looked up at Molly with her large blue eyes and made a grab for her hair, pulling on it, but not hard enough to be painful. This wasn't a moment of enlightenment for Molly, but somehow with Elena actually talking her through holding the child instead of simply expecting her nonexistent "maternal instincts" to take over, it wasn't as incredibly overwhelming.

"I had three younger siblings and cousins so I was practically official baby holder from the time I turned nine. You act like an only child."

"I have a brother, I was five when he was born, but I didn't really interact with him until he could actually talk." Molly replied, adjusting her hold on the baby, feeling oddly transfixed on her. Suddenly the spell was broken, and Molly felt as if she had been plunged into a bucket of ice water. Shivering, she gave the small bundled up baby back to Elena, "I uhm…I should go."

_You know if you ever had one, you'd probably drown her in the bath or something…._

"Yeah sure. It was nice to meet you!" Numbers were quickly exchanged. Elena waved, but Molly turned quickly, retreating back into her own head. She wouldn't have actually sent a text or called Elena, if it weren't for the fact that she sent one exactly three minutes later saying hello. She sent back the same before crossing another street.

Four hours later, the world around her had grown dark and Molly found herself making her way back to her flat as she was finally tired. It was strange how she could be so tired yet be so awake at the same time, and manage to spend six hours of her day doing nothing but wandering and talking to a woman and holding a baby. She sighed upon seeing a man she knew fumbling with the keys to his door, obviously intoxicated. Quietly she approached him, taking the key from his gloved and trembling hand and jammed it into the lock, turning it and flinging the door open. She helped him stumble inside and up the stairs, leaning heavily on her frame as she walked to his flat, unlocking that door and dragging him inside. He mumbled incoherently at Molly, but she said nothing in return, simply taking him to the sofa, tucking him in, and placing a glass of water and aspirin on his coffee table before she left.

This had become a routine of sorts. Once in a while, she would find this alcoholic in his depressing state of being unable to enter his building, and she would help him to his flat. Molly left before he woke and he never showed any sign of recalling what happened. If they passed by each other in the street, they were strangers. Molly didn't even know his name. She just tried the house key in the doors until one opened. She knew he wasn't allergic to aspirin due to the fact that the medicine was in his cabinet and knew for certain it was his place because it reeked of booze and had a picture of him standing next to a woman Molly never saw. With every episode, Molly knew more about the alcoholic. His significant other was dead. He was allergic to chocolate. Most of the time, he was completely functional at his nine to five job but sometimes he simply just lost it and in those instances Molly was forced to play good Samaritan.

_Helping everyone in the world won't make up for that less than charming personality…._

Finally, Molly returned to her flat opening the door and walking in to find Sherlock sitting in a chair, staring at precisely where she would walk in, "As I recall, you said you probably weren't going to leave the flat today."

"I just needed some fresh air."

"Judging by your appearance, you've been out for longer than a twenty minute stroll."

"How did it go with the police?" Molly asked, oddly enough, desperately trying to change the subject.

He drew close to her suddenly, "I smell alcohol."

"Which I didn't have." Molly replied, skirting around him. "Had to help a fellow into his flat."

"That could be considered dangerous."

"The only thing I was in danger of was getting sick on me." Molly threw her coat on the hook and made her way to the kitchen, fixing herself a cup of tea, unaware that Sherlock was on her heels until she turned, almost slamming into him, the tip of her nose touching barely brushing with a button on his shirt as she looked up at him, "What is it?" The man truly had no real sense of personal space, and Molly found herself aware of just how close he was, as she could smell smoke, petrol, and oddly enough roses, "Wait why do you smell like you rolled around in flowers?"

"Good observation. A takedown occurred in a florist shop."

It was strange, usually he would relish in elaborating, telling her about how absolutely fantastically clever he was. "That would explain the bits of plywood on your shoulder as well." Molly plucked a small piece off and examined it, "So I take it everything went well?"

"Yes." He seemed like he was about to say something else, but Molly was saved by the kettle whistling. Abruptly, she turned around and fixed her tea as well as his simply out of habit. She then retreated to her bedroom and locked the door, finally settling down on the bed with her legs crossed underneath her. She found herself sipping her tea in a pleasant silence, as she couldn't hear Sherlock wandering around in the next room.

_Don't you ever wonder when he'll get bored of sad little Molly?_

The next day, Molly went down to the stand across from her building, glancing down at the tabloids and papers that were still excited over Sherlock's return. It was a slow Sunday, and they were once again wondering why stalking 221B wasn't working. He didn't live there. It was simple. He lived with her. For the first time that fact really hit her. There was no conference on; it just sort of happened. This irritated Molly to no end. How long until the idiots were outside of her home, disrupting her otherwise peaceful day? She rolled her eyes at the ridiculous titles and took her usual paper.

"I'm getting tired of hearing about that Holmes bloke, it's already old news, don't you think?"

Molly jumped, dropping her wallet. The alcoholic bent down and helped her pick it up pressing it into her hands, "Oh uhm—"

"Didn't mean to startle you." Molly realized that this was the first time she ever heard his voice other than the slurred mumbling she knew. She turned, looking at him as he smiled sheepishly at her. Quickly Molly gave a small smile and turned around, giving the newspaper man his money.

"Thanks." She murmured, hearing her mobile buzz and fumbled for it, halting her escape.

_"Get milk—SH"_

Of course Sherlock knew that Molly got groceries on Sunday, and of course, as per usual, he wouldn't get his own damn milk for his own damn tea. She startled, realizing that the alcoholic was still there, and was talking.

"Oh I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I wanted to say thanks—for uhm last night…and I suspect several times in the past." He looked down at his feet, and Molly felt beyond uncomfortable standing there in the cold the wind whipping her cheeks. It was strange. She didn't like being acknowledged like this; most people craved it. She just wanted to duck away and continue moving on with her life from the shadows, "You're very kind."

"I wasn't too keen on finding your frozen body in the morning." To Molly's surprise, he laughed. He actually laughed at one of her morbid half jokes. It surprised her to be honest as did the slight dizzy spell she had, probably as a result of her medication adjustment. The dizzy spells and the dry mouth were certainly the worst part of the new stuff. She couldn't drink nearly enough, even with a water bottle ready in her purse at all times.

"No I don't think anyone would." He stuck out his hand, "Elliot Browning."

"Molly Hooper." Molly replied finding that he had a firm grip that practically crushed her limp hand.

"Well…fancy a cup of coffee, Molly? I think you've scraped me off the sidewalk enough times for it to be my treat."

Molly glanced up at her building and down at the paper clutched in her hands before shrugging, "I'll be sure to get the most expensive thing on the menu, then."

After making good on that promise, Molly went and purchased everything on her list and dragged the two bags up to her flat. As she put the milk in the fridge, she noticed Sherlock walking from her bedroom. She shuddered at the idea of what he could have possibly been doing in there, but still turned to smile and greet him, "I think I'm going to try making chicken cordon bleu from scratch today—"

"He's an alcoholic."

She didn't let her smile drop, "I know."

Sherlock blinked, "W-well that's all I had."

Molly cleared her throat, "His name is Elliot Browning, he's thirty-seven years old, widowed, he's allergic to chocolate, but not super horribly, and he works at a bank. He also does this weird twitchy thing when he lies, which he did exactly twice while I was speaking to him."

"So boring."

"There's nothing wrong with having a boring friend. They can keep you from going squirrely." Molly then stood up on her toes to kiss his cheek before busying herself in the kitchen. It was an odd habit to be sure, but it had sprung from the night she sat on the roof's edge trying to make sense of things. In all honesty, she didn't examine the action too closely. She kissed his cheek when she left the flat for any reason and kissed it upon returning. She kissed his cheek when she went to bed—that is if he hadn't said anything particularly insulting—and she really hadn't figured out why. It simply became a habit. She suddenly felt very self-conscious. Usually Sherlock would draw back and do whatever it is that he did, but he simply remained.

_Don't you ever wonder what his endgame is? There always is one…._

Molly jumped when he cleared his throat, barely glancing up at him before continuing to read the directions. "How are you feeling?" he seemed very uncomfortable with the words as he said them, annunciating distinctly as if afraid he might mess them up.

Molly smiled, feeling warmth spread through her chest at the fact that he was actually trying, "I held a baby yesterday."

"How does that answer my question?" Sherlock was obviously trying to puzzle a hidden meaning that simply wasn't there.

"I don't like babies…but I still held one, let her tug on my hair…. It's not normal to have a dislike for babies…but I realized it was dislike for myself that led me to believe that I was incapable of even holding a baby properly. But I did…so…I don't think I'm going to wear my disillusionment and discomfort like a favorite shirt." She smiled down at the mess that she had created, "So…you don't have to worry about me, Sherlock." It was a blatant lie, but Molly really didn't want him to worry about her. So she made her chicken cordon bleu taking a picture before forcing Sherlock to at least eat half of one.

_It still didn't stop you from crying…._

Molly didn't cry often, but when she did, she cried silently as she simply couldn't stop. It wasn't a cry for help or attention, it was simply a cry—the sort of cry that released endorphins and made her feel slightly better but still a bit sick afterwards. She cried, staring up at the outline of the various pictures she had taped to the ceiling and felt the urge to simply rip them down and _set them on fire. _She didn't act on that urge and so it passed rather quickly. Anger never lasted long. She could scream and shriek and stomp all she very well wanted, but it still wouldn't keep her from hurtling towards the edge. It wouldn't lift the weight in her chest. It certainly wouldn't help her breathe. If anything, all it did was deprive her of oxygen even quicker than before.

_It won't end until you do…._

Molly threw her legs over the edge of the bed, and found herself walking towards her closet in a robotic fashion. She jerked on a pair of jeans and a jumper, and put on a pair of boots, zipping them with numb and shaking fingers. Somehow she knew, even before she wandered into the living room, that Sherlock had left. A clearer part of her mind wanted him. That part wanted his logic, his ability to kill off her flights of fancy and keep her completely grounded. The rest of her mind raged against rationality, all too pleased by his absence, allowing her to stumble back out on street. She didn't know where she was going, she just wanted out and away.

_You can't run away from yourself, you're the problem after all…._

She clutched her head, pacing back and forth, trying to remember what she did to curb it in the past. It was as if her mind was in a vacuum and everything churning through her head overrode everything else, but she could still smell the garbage from the bins—yes they smelled like rotting take away and fish this time of year, it was disgusting and gross. She continued pacing, trying to distinguish more smells before racing back up the stairs and through her open flat door, slamming it behind her as she went to the kitchen. She smelled the herbs and spices, being able to name them without reading the labels, and then she moved on to smelling every single soap and shampoo she had, even Sherlock's. Molly made it to the sofa before breaking down again, distinctly smelling Sherlock on his blankets and covers from his rare bouts of sleep.

Molly woke up there two hours later, a sense of tranquility having rushed over her, but she still felt the panic edging in again. She disentangled herself from Sherlock's blanket and rose, returning to the kitchen. She cut some onions so quickly that she almost cut her finger twice, and threw them into a pan. Caramelizing onions took time and constant stirring and they smell _wonderful. _She smiled a little, taking a little sliver from the pan and savoring it. Smell. She would have to remember the onions next time.

_Onions Molly? Really?_

She ignored it and continued to chop more onions.

**Believe it or not, that was a bit of a pro tip from me. I know it's super weird sounding, but when you're about to do something really crazy like hurt yourself, hurt someone else, kill yourself, or call your ex-boyfriend and leave a long and colorful rant on his voicemail that he could proceed to show off to all of his friends to show how "cray cray" you really are, your sense of smell is one of the only senses of your environment not overtaken by that which is inhibiting your rationality. Caramelizing onions is my favorite, because it gives you time to calm down, requires constant vigilance, and the smell is incredibly strong. **


	4. Conversations With The Alcholic

**So I watched the Doctor Who 50th Anniversary! Did you? I hope so as it was (in my less than professional opinion) wonderful.**

Sherlock returned to Molly's flat after a two day case to find that she was gone. He quickly deduced that she had taken a night shift to make up for the mandatory time off from the chart hanging on her freezer door to the note on the coffee table telling him that there were leftovers if he needed a meal. She finally accepted his presence but still didn't treat it with absolute comfort, treating him like a necessary evil more than anything else. Silently he lowered himself into the chair and thought about how he might entertain himself now that Molly was working again. He decided on playing the violin, composing as he thought about the case and what could be deleted from his mind palace. Just as soon as he decided this, having set himself up with his violin even, there was a knock on the door.

He stood up; trying to gain information from what a simple knock could give him. It was a man, probably timid about knocking so late at night, so not police, not a robbery about to occur, and not someone who knew of Molly's naturally hectic schedule. Sherlock came to the conclusion that it was the alcoholic who had taken an interest in Molly after she helped him (having a soft heart and all of that nonsense) before he opened the door.

"May I help you?" The man, whose name he had frankly deleted as irrelevant, stumbled back surprised.

"Oh uhm—" He was clutching Molly's scarf, she left it in the alcoholic's flat when she dragged him in, pink with black stripes, Molly had been searching for it before. The alcoholic probably left it for a while because he wanted to use it as an excuse to invite Molly over—no he actually only genuinely found it approximately twenty minutes before arriving at her door—Molly had given him her address in case of an emergency on his part. Sherlock concluded in that second that the man was there under completely pure intentions and it was rather irritating.

Sherlock reached out and snatched the scarf, "Molly's at work right now."

"Aren't you that Sherlock Holmes bloke—?"

He knew that it was one of those "bit not good" things John spoke of, but Sherlock was quite prompt about slamming the door before the man could continue. Molly's scarf went on the hook next to his coat and he returned to the sofa with his violin posed and ready. Four hours later, Molly returned, tired and weary from work, most likely nursing a headache because someone had spilled coffee on her and a man decided to cry into her chest after identifying the body of a loved one. She slumped right next to him, kissed his cheek, and turned on the telly in order to watch some American serial about fairytales. It was all complete crap, but this episode did involve pirates so he didn't protest, and he wordlessly put the violin to the side.

Silence with Molly was comfortable. She let Sherlock live within his mind and he allowed the same of her. Soon she got up and dragged herself to bed, and left him completely with those thoughts. Molly seemed to be normal again, back to work, back to being quiet and stuttering slightly. She did develop some strange habits, like every once in a while, he would come home and find her throwing onions in a frying pan. It only happened three times, and each time, he felt as if he was walking in on some sort of bizarre ritual. Half the time she didn't even eat them. She enjoyed taping photographs of things that she liked to the ceiling above her bed and her books and DVDs were all sorted in reverse alphabetical order one day and then alphabetical order or by author name or by genre the next. It was as if she could never really settle and could never simply be.

On his third investigation of her bedroom, he found a stack of moleskin journals, the type with blank pages, covered in Molly's scrawling handwriting as it evolved. He decided that like any rational being, he would start at the beginning, finding the date was a week after her first suicide attempt. Molly probably wouldn't like it if she knew, but he would put the diaries exactly where they were before and she would probably never notice the dust layer missing from the lower ones.

_So Dr idiot—I mean Fletcher—thinks that I should write my thoughts as they come as part of my therapy. I think it's a load of bull, I mean why would I pour out my heart in a book that anyone can come across and read? But to make Dad happy, I'll comply. Also, if you are someone other than me reading this, burn in hell…wait hell isn't real. I suppose I'll need to find a new empty threat to use on a hypothetical individual. Well…it's just not nice to read other people's diaries. If I've offed myself by then, please be the one to do the honors of burning this. I don't want to be remembered._

Sherlock felt his brow furrow as he turned the page, finding a detailed picture of a kitten.

_If I draw pictures, I bet I can make the pages go faster._

Another kitten. A puppy. A young man sitting at a bus stop. He passed three more cat pictures before he found any more writing.

_Dr Fletcher caught on. I'm now limited to drawing a picture every other page, and I'm apparently supposed to write this front and back. So a picture is worth a thousand words, but not considered helpful in the psychoanalysis of the girl who just doesn't want to be here. Of course, the man's an idiot that has his degree and various other achievements framed and hanging on the wall so that everyone knows just how "smarticles" he isn't. I think I saw an attendance award in the mix…an attendance award. Congrats, your parents drove you to primary school sick so that you could infect the greater populous. I applaud you, really I do._

Sherlock snorted despite himself. It appeared that Molly always had a sense of humor that clashed with the lowest common denominator and anyone who was squeamish. He read through the first journal quickly, moving on to the third and then the fourth. While Molly didn't express much about how she was actually feeling, her writing tended to be messier when she was sad and she pressed down harder when she was angry or under stress. On the fifth one, she was eighteen, her father was dying, her brother was an awkward teenager, and she seemed to be at a breaking point. Knowing what was going to happen didn't soften the blow, especially with the last picture she drew before she overdosed on her father's narcotics near the last page of the moleskin a month before her brother turned eighteen.

It was of him.

He knew it instantly; it was Sherlock himself slumped in an alleyway and high. With the immaculate detail Sherlock had come to expect from Molly Hooper's work, his face was turned to the side and his eyes were squeezed shut, his hands clenching his coat forming fists. Somehow, this made Molly's late night wanderings all the more real. She wandered London _alone _in the middle of the night, past druggies—_like him—_and thought nothing of the consequences. It was strange with how large London is, how she managed to stumble across him more than once in their lifetimes. The chances of that were statistically quite low. Finally able to tear his gaze from that coincidence, he moved on to the next page.

_I have done what I must. I don't know why I keep these, or why I kept writing in them even after all that foul man had done. I hate therapists and psychiatrists. Evan's almost eighteen now, a good and proper adult, capable of living on his own. I left him enough money for school and whatever else he'd like to do. I'm finished. I'm really not needed anymore. I just want to leave and be forgotten already._

There were no more entries after that. Sherlock put the diaries back in the right order and walked out of her bedroom, closing the door silently behind him. Molly was asleep on his sofa curled up in his blanket. Seeing little harm in it, Sherlock lifted her and carried her to the bedroom, placing her in her bed, throwing the covers over her. Molly was so tiny and her face was so blank when she slept. Unlike John, she didn't sleep talk, she didn't thrash about, and she didn't snore loudly. He had expected someone as awkward as Molly to have had at least one of those bad sleep habits. But no, even as he sat there on the edge of his bed, she didn't stir. She was simply still.

Shaking himself out of such a reverie, Sherlock stood up and left the room, turning off the light on the way out.

With two months passing, Sherlock and Molly found themselves in a bizarre routine that pleasantly mocked domestic tranquility. Both had unpredictable jobs so sometimes their paths wouldn't cross for days, and when dissatisfied they often communicated through angry and hurried sticky notes. Although Molly showed vast improvement of her mentality from three months previously, Sherlock had made no move to leave. He was already set in his ways and it wasn't until one conversation that he realized he referred to Molly's flat as _home._

Sherlock hated idiotic people. Sadly they were what made up a majority of the world populous so he had to constantly endure them. Andersen was one of them. The man was practically the poster child for stupidity. Somehow, he ended up having to travel with the idiot to the morgue. Molly was there ready to greet Sherlock. Before, he would have ignored her and demanded to see—in this case Mr. Hamilton—the body, but he nodded before starting.

"I need to see Mr. Hamilton immediately."

"Okay, one second."

Much to Sherlock's displeasure, Andersen followed her as she pulled the body out onto the slab, "Death by asphyxiation. That sounds pretty easy—"

"Caused by poison ingested." Molly and Sherlock deadpanned at almost exactly the same time.

"So Molly we should get lunch sometime—"

"Sherlock did you remember to get milk?"

Sherlock knew very well that Molly didn't trust him with obtaining food and he never had the urge to do so, but he immediately caught on to the fact that Molly wasn't amused by Andersen's advancements. There was also the fact that he himself wasn't all too pleased with Andersen thinking he could hint at having sexual intercourse with Molly and actually believe it was reciprocated. He found the very thought of it revolting. He smirked as he looked over the body of Mr. Hamilton.

"Getting milk is such a mundane task."

"Yes well you're the one who takes it with their tea. If you want milk with your tea you will have to get it yourself."

"I don't recall you making a statement about the need for milk."

"Well you ought to know when you open our refrigerator and throw a fit because there wasn't enough milk left at the bottom of the carton. I don't drink milk because I'm _lactose intolerant. _So it's your milk. It's _implied _Sherlock. Sort of like it's _implied _that you don't throw out perfectly good leftovers to store a diseased lung and sort of like it's _implied _that you should clean out the bath after having showered off dog feces." Molly rolled her eyes dramatically at him.

"Well next time I'm home I'll be sure to keep those in mind." Sherlock almost paused at the word 'home' trying to figure out why it rolled off his tongue rather than the more accurate 'in the flat'

"Wait—_you _live with the freak?" Andersen finally processed the conversation they were having "Why?"

"Why else?" Molly replied cryptically.

Andersen's mind automatically leapt to the depraved and he soon left Molly and Sherlock alone, defeated.

"Ack I hate it when he does that."

"Does what?"

"Ask me out. It's like reinforcing the fact that only creeps, cheaters, married men, and wifebeaters like me."

"How many times has he done it?"

"No idea…at least twice a year since I started working here." Molly sighed, jumping slightly, "Oh I'm late. I was off five minutes ago but—"

"But we're not finished."

"Sherlock I'm meeting someone for lunch it's—"

"It can wait."

"Sorry, but it can't."

With that, Molly left. Sherlock was confused. Molly usually couldn't say no to him—she let him walk all over her usually. He supposed this could mean an improvement in her psyche, but it was still strange. There was also the fact that Molly had very few friends, more than what Sherlock could boast but all the same very few. Before the mystery became a full distraction, he temporarily pushed her from his mind and continued with the case. Most of the time, he worked cases alone, having no one to talk to. John was on a vacation and even then expected to work more within his practice, and while Molly would make an excellent substitute, her work schedule wouldn't allow it. She was also still fragile in her own way. He knew she wouldn't scream in the face of death, she would laugh and welcome it and there in lied the problem. Molly sought out death, whether unconsciously or otherwise, she allowed herself to be reckless living everyday life. Unlike John, she didn't thrive off of the idea of surviving; therefore Sherlock couldn't use her as a replacement. It still irritated him to no end that he had grown so used to companionship on cases and at home.

When he came back to the insufferable flat he somehow managed to take up residence in, Molly was caramelizing onions. He finally realized the pattern the seventh (of ten) times that she did it. She made them when she had a particularly bad day, whether by external or internal forces. She didn't react, meaning she was very engrossed in the activity of stirring the onions around the pan, staring down at them as if her intense contemplation would do something. It took less than a minute for Sherlock to get bored, deciding instead to go through her bag. He found nothing particularly interesting except for a refill of her prescription. Molly picked an unfortunate time to snap out of her self-induced trance.

"What are you doing?"

"If it's obvious then there's no need to question me."

"Well I was sort of hoping for a 'why' and 'what' came out instead. _Why _are you going through my bag?"

He looked up at her to find a tired woman with her arms crossed, "I wanted to see what was inside."

Her brow furrowed, indicating that what she was going to say next she wanted to put delicate, and she expected a debate on the matter—possibly conflict, "Sherlock…don't you think it's time you…well went home? Mrs. Hudson's kept all your things precisely where they were and she misses you."

Sherlock would have thought that Molly would know better than to try to guilt him, but he did feel a twinge of it at the mention of Mrs. Hudson keeping his flat in pristine condition, awaiting him. The greatest problem was simply the fact that he didn't want to leave. He shook his head, "I will visit Mrs. Hudson tomorrow."

"In order to discuss moving back in?" Molly sounded hopeful, and Sherlock found that rather irritating.

"In order to have tea and obtain my skull."

Molly sighed, "Okay, whatever, I'm going to sleep before I have a shout at you."

"Why would you shout at me?" Sherlock was genuinely confused.

"BECAUSE YOU WON'T LEAVE MY BLOODY FLAT! YOU KEEP BODY PARTS IN THE REFRIGERATOR AND WHILE I'M NOT SQUEAMISH THAT CROSSES A LINE! YOU GO THROUGH MY THINGS, YOU SCARE MY CAT, YOU, YOU COME IN SMELLING LIKE A RUBBISH BIN, AND GOD HELP ME YOU WON'T LEAVE ME THE BLOODY HELL ALONE! THERE IS A PERMANENT INDENTION IN MY SOFA FROM YOUR ASS!"

Sherlock had never experienced an angry Molly. He could liken it to a star collapsing on itself—so fine the book on astronomy John gave him might have been a slight bit useful if only for describing Molly's foul mood. Molly trembled with rage, before it dissipated just as quickly, "Oh dear. I shouted. Night Sherlock." She gave a tiny wave and then retreated into her bedroom, closing the door gently.

Sherlock found Molly's mood changes were almost capable of giving him whiplash. It was illogical for them to do so, but it might have had to do with the eardrums not adjusting to the shouting and—well no. Probably not. There wasn't a physiological reaction aside from the chemicals in his own mind hoping to override rationality. He decided it would be appropriate to leave temporarily and find something else to occupy his mind with. As soon as he was outside, he almost ran into the alcoholic who had been standing at the door.

"Bit of a domestic?" He asked with a knowing smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and brushed past him, but much to his chagrin the man persisted in following him, "I'm Elliot Browning, I live in the building across the street—"

"I'm aware of this." Sherlock replied stiffly "You're also a—"

"I'd rather not here your deductions; I mean I kind of already know who and what I am if you know what I mean, eh? I know I'm not very interesting so there's no need and—"

"Then why are you speaking?" Elliot's arm suddenly shot out, stopping him, and allowing the shorter man to step in front of him.

"Is she sad because of you?"

Sherlock had to hand it to him; he did not entirely see that coming from the alcoholic. Elliot Browning was a meek man who took a meek job and lived a very meek life until his wife died. Then he proceeded to drink and become even more pathetic. It had probably taken all of his strength to speak to Molly that one day by the news stand. Yet he stood before Sherlock hardened and although obviously intimidated, wasn't going to back down. The question itself was one that, despite evidence to the contrary, had nested in Sherlock's mind because while there was evidence countering it, there was a sizable amount of data that could answer that question with a 'yes.' Of course, Sherlock wasn't going to admit this to the man that got pissed once a week and had to be dragged into his flat by a far too nice for her own good Molly.

"Molly is fine for now." The 'for now' crept into his voice purely by accident.

Elliot rolled his eyes, "Do you at least know why?"

"Discussing her psychological health with someone who is nearly a stranger is probably at the top of the list of 'bit not good' things I should refrain from doing." Sherlock tightened his coat around himself and left the man, this time making sure he wasn't followed.

At four he received a text alerting him of a new case. It was only a seven, however he was bored and needed to allow Molly the 'time alone' she so desired. Within an hour he was lost within the case, happily deducing people to tears and deciding who killed a seemly flawless working man—who happened to be a participant in a rampant black market antique's business—and why. There were so many obvious motives that it was slightly difficult to figure out. It was evening when things changed (he was in the lab and only would have noticed because John demanded food—why did he bring him again?) His mobile rang and he picked it up, finding an unwelcome message from a blocked number.

**_Unknown: _**_Well it's a good thing your lady friend wasn't allergic to the chloroform. Why don't we talk?_

**Woot woot! I've been very productive as of late, both in class and in my writing. I hope I continue on this streak. Today's didn't have any particular reason for being written except to continue the themes from the last chapters and create a good scenario for my next one (which is already halfway written) I'd also like to say that my previous therapist once made me write a journal. I hated it and decided to write erotic and over the top fanfiction in it to see if he was actually telling the truth about not reading it. **


	5. A Chat With The Devil

**Another Chapter? So soon? Yes! Tehe!**

**Today is wonderful! The sun is shining! I'm not failing any classes! I'm almost finished with my semester assignments! My novel turns out to be like 300,000 words long so I might have to cut down edit, and put everything into three separate volumes for it ever to be considered for publishing, but other than that, I'm having an excellent day with an excellent use of huge exclamation points! **

** I would like to try this thing where I thank you all for your reviews today:**

**Rocking The Redhead: **It seems like you're ready to review every story I've got. **Crimson and Chrome 42:** You're always so lovely when you review** Im:** yes, yes he did, and he wanted to talk about my fascination with sex afterwards.** dazzle-1606:** Your review was fantastic! It was just as entertaining to read as a story by itself. **varjaks**: thank you! ** ghostwriterlondon13:** **someone:** haha yup** person: **Yes, yes she did.

She really meant to quit. But taking a lighter and heating a simple hair clip was too perversely good to resist. Molly pressed the hot clip against her thigh, gasping as she felt her flesh burn. Tipping her head back, she inhaled deeply feeling the strange and familiar rush that coursed through her, embracing her like an old friend. Of course she knew why she did this and that there was not a particularly safe way to do so, but it drew less attention than drugs and there was less blood than cutting. It brought her back down to earth where everybody else was, releasing endorphins in her system faster than a long hard run. In all, she had a range of unhealthy and self-destructive addictions. Silently she rolled down her trouser leg and straightened herself up in the mirror. She hurried out of the morgue at the end of her shift, still feeling the faint pain as she walked out into the street. Yes it hurt, of course it hurt; that was the point, after all.

_That's what you deserve, after all._

Really, she didn't know what made her think of it.

_Yes you do, look around you, Molly._

Molly could remember the conversations she had with Jim from IT, soon to be revealed as Moriarty. She thought he was a funny bloke, but thought that it was expected. He was gay after all. It might have been mean to leap to such a conclusion so abruptly, but when she combined his voice, with his preference of dress, and the fact that he constantly asked after Sherlock, she wasn't stupid and she certainly wasn't blind. Yet she let the progression of events continue, ending in disaster, probably because she was a bit of a masochist. She liked pain, and what better pain than to be wrong, to feel unloved, and to ultimately be proven yet again that people viewed her as a tool? A few kind words from Sherlock—a comforting presence in the next room—would not change the fact that it was very much true. Molly kissed Jim on the cheek, told him he was sweet, but he needed to sort himself out—this was before Sherlock's great reveal.

"Can you just introduce me to him, at least?"

_No you should just go to hell, Molly and I will open the door for you…._

She agreed and let Sherlock have his little field day of deductions, complete with a little stomp off at the end on her part. If Molly had known who he was…she didn't know what she would have done. Molly never was a violent person, preferring to be a passive force. Really, if Molly had known, she couldn't have done a thing about it. That is, except fix Jim a lovely drink with a tasteless cocktail that would first weaken him and then kill him. Under her close watch, he would fade from the world, and be incapable of hurting Sherlock and John and the countless others he wrecked or destroyed. To Molly, that wasn't violent, that wasn't even hurting him; that was releasing him. It was a blessing she sought, but always managed to screw up. Her therapist—a man with an all right head on his shoulders—asked her a question that cut deeply into her.

"Do you even want to die?"

_Do you even want to live?_

Yes. No. She didn't know she just wanted to be free; she just wanted to fly and not be disappointed by something for once in her little insignificant life. She supposed she could be clever; she was after all, the woman who saw something was off about Jim from IT, the woman who saw Sherlock in his time of need, the woman…who was currently tied up to a rather uncomfortable chair. How she came to find herself in such a state was simple really, she felt a man grab her from behind with a rag doused with chloroform ready to be pressed over her air passageways, and then she found herself dragged from the street and into an alley before losing consciousness, the streets of London continuing without her.

_That's the lovely thing about a city, you can walk the length of it in a bunny suit and only a handful would notice…._

When she awoke, she was in the stupid chair, feeling quite a bit groggy and lightheaded. An IV was delivering a drug to her probably meant to perpetuate helplessness, but she found that it was barely enough to keep her a bit dizzy. Years of prescription abuse had created a high tolerance for escaping into oblivion. Shame, the ropes would probably feel quite a bit less constricting if she had been off into Cloudcuckooland. This meant that whoever kidnapped her didn't have knowledge of her previous drug use, suggesting that he was not as clever as the likes of Sherlock or Moriarty. She didn't particularly know what to do with the information, but sighed, rearranging her hand slightly to pinch a hole in the drip, and thus further decrease the flow of the drug to her system. She averted her eyes from the droplets reaching the floor and instead stared ahead, waiting.

_Oh are you trying to be clever, Molly? It doesn't suit you…_

Her kidnapper came in a moment later, his face covered by a mask, but she could still gleam features from him. Green eyes, a tiny turf of blond hair showed, six foot six inches, two hundred pounds approximately…she had been spending way too much time with Sherlock and with dead bodies as of late "Do you know why you're here?" He had a rough voice from smoking.

"No idea. Really." Molly managed to shrug, finding that he didn't do a particularly good job with her bindings either.

"You're a clever one. You pinched a hole in the IV." He walked over and ripped it from his arm, "There's little need for that anymore, anyway."

_Oh a killer? I know you're intrigued, Molly..._

"So why am I here? I'd really like to know before I'm dismembered if you will."

"You are a wee bit too calm for a hostage."

"Oh so you do not intend to kill me? How disappointing. So what do you want?" She knew in that instant that she had touched something within her kidnapper, as he was visibly struck by her words. His biggest mistake was probably not gagging her. He just didn't know it yet.

"I—your boyfriend he ruined my brother's life, and I want him to pay!"

Of course he had to start with something entirely too cliché for her. He had knowledge of putting in an IV, and of sedatives so…nurse? Failed nursing student? "First off, I don't do the word 'boyfriend' it sounds so weird and juvenile. Secondly he's more like that thing that won't leave my flat, I mean ever hear that song _The Cat Came _Back? He's a bit like that. My third and final point is that kidnapping me wouldn't exactly be making him pay unless you were under the assumption that he actually cared about my well being."

"Doesn't he?"

"Beats me." Molly tried to shrug but ultimately failed, instead settling against the chair, "Look. I have little interest in how Sherlock Holmes was involved in screwing up your life, he has a tendency to do that to everyone, I'd just like to warn you that one, if he doesn't care about me in any capacity, you will gain nothing from this, and two, if he does, I…well I wouldn't want to be you. Either way, you'll get nothing from it. Either way, you lose. The question is whether or not I'll die or be seriously injured. Well actually that's not much of a question as we are all mortal and we all die eventually. It's whether I'll die here or now that's my concern."

_You could end here and it wouldn't be your fault. Play this well, Molly…._

The man sighed, and after a moment took off his mask, "You're a bit weird."

"So I've been told."

"Why do you live with a man who may or may not care for you, who has ruined others?"

"Because he slept on my sofa and hasn't left since." Molly watched as the man paced back and forth, slightly lost, both jumping as they heard a crash from above, "I think that you're a scared man, a man who doesn't actually want to kill me. So don't. I don't want my blood on unwilling hands."

"You're not scared. Why aren't you scared?"

"I have nothing to live for and little reason to fear it." Molly replied evenly, watching as his sleeves eased up revealing soft pale lines on otherwise unmarred skin. Finally she had something to work with.

"And why is that?"

"Tell me, how did you think this would go? Did you expect me to cry? Scream a bit? Remain unconscious until you managed to gain your bearings? From your text, you wanted to wait and meet up with Sherlock but obviously he's already figured out where we are. I mean even I know. This is sloppy. Gaining anything from it was a mere fantasy, and when you live in a fantasy, you become disappointed with reality, because reality will never measure up. And you'll just keep trudging forward, trying to salvage the situation when really, you've just kidnapped and drugged a woman—that didn't work because I have a high tolerance by the way—are about to get caught, before or after you commit murder, and won't be any closer to avenging or actually helping your brother in any way shape or form."

"Shut—"

"You're not exactly the brightest crayon in the box, are you? Oh, that doesn't matter now, what's done is done. You'll go to prison. No matter what you do, or how you do it, I get away because you're simply _that _horrible at everything you do. I bet your brother blames you too. Do you want to know why?" Molly got no pleasure at the man's distress, simply plunging into the next line, "It's your fault. It's always been your fault, right? Yes, precisely!" The laughter bubbled from her throat unconsciously, and she almost cringed as she heard it echo back to her in the largeness of the room, "Personally, I don't care what happens to you or him. You're nothing, nothing at all, and never will be."

Growling, the man lunged, resting a knife pulled from his back pocket against her throat. "Are you so sure of that?! I could kill you right now." His voice was higher pitched; he was losing control of the situation and thus his emotions.

Molly giggled, feeling her skin rub against the blade, "Actually in order to kill me more efficiently, I suggest hitting my right internal jugular vein, located about an inch from where you have your knife." Her voice didn't waver. Her resolve didn't shake as he moved the tip of the blade to the indicated location, shaking, hovering above it, making a small and shallow cut, "You can't do it. What a waste of my time." She settled back into the chair, giggling again, the mania and the drugs overtaking her personality with a rush of confidence. She had always been like this in the face of death, from reckless drinking in uni to being mugged for nothing on late night walks. "It's all your fault!"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" Her kidnapper grasped her by her throat, but didn't apply enough pressure for there to be an chance of being strangled.

"Poor weak you, aren't you tired yet? I'm tired, you know. Aren't you tired? Isn't that why you did it?! Oh but you forgot, you can't even die right, tehe. I'm so tired—so so—"

A hand came over her mouth, and she laughed hysterically against it, knowing that she had won.

_They'll be coming any second now…._

When Sherlock burst through the door, John Watson, Lestrade, and Sally Donovan on his heels, everything blurred together. She noted her kidnapper being flung away, the knife discarded, and John's hands on hers as he untied her. Lestrade helped Molly to her feet, gripping her arm as if she would fall. She watched in morbid fascination as Sherlock threw the man against the wall before John could even touch him, making an inhuman guttural noise as he punched him repeatedly in the stomach, holding him up to keep him from slumping to the ground. The dizziness came back slightly and she found herself stumbling against Lestrade slightly, forcing her to grasp his arm for support.

_Well you fucked up yet again, Molly dearie. _

John pulled Sherlock away from the now bloody mess of a kidnapper, trying to talk sense into him, "Sherlock! Stop! He's unconscious! Calm down. Stop! Uggh, damn it!" Sherlock was gasping for breath—appropriate, he did smoke and he had just brutally beaten a man—and for the first time glanced at Molly with—was that relief?

_Of course not!_

She broke eye contact before anything could happen during his loss of self-control that he would surely regret later. Molly didn't like these unhinged bits he showed at times, it reminded her how human he actually was. It reminded her that she shouldn't assume he was completely unfeeling, and that if she screwed up enough, she could find the exact words that would hurt even a "high functioning sociopath" like she could look again, he was still staring at her, his shoulders sagging. Taking a tentative step forward, Molly stumbled a bit steadying herself before crossing the small room and putting a hand on his shoulder for a brief moment before walking out the door. Vaguely, Molly heard John ask a question.

"We could hear you from behind the door. How did you know to say those kind of things?"

"The scars on his wrists were self-inflicted." Molly replied, closing her eyes to keep the world from spinning, knowing it probably didn't explain everything at all. She couldn't find herself caring.

She made her statement, feeling almost bored with the proceedings, as she was scarcely gone twenty-seven hours, and the single culprit had been apprehended (Although somehow his hand was broken in three places—when did that happen?) and had been easily cuffed when he blacked out. A small stint in the emergency room told them what she already knew about the IV drip and she was ready to return home with a single butterfly bandage on her neck. Sherlock had been strangely absent through the entire ordeal.

_Well he got bored with everything, that's all…._

Immediately, she went to the kitchen to make herself some tea. She set the kettle on the stove, turning to find Sherlock invading her personal space once more, "Oh! You startled me. Has anyone ever told you you're a bit like a cat? The way you sneak up on people is—"

"Mentally you seem fine. Obviously you're uninjured." Sherlock spoke stiffly, his hand rising, twitching, about to do some unconscious action near the cut on her neck, although he thought better of it at last minute and put it back down.

"Well of course I'm not injured it's not like—"

"You shouldn't walk home alone after a night shift."

"And you shouldn't go around chasing down—"

"Molly!" He spoke through gritted teeth, hands on both of her shoulders clenching quite hard, "Take a taxi from now on and—"

"Sherlock if someone wants to kidnap me or kill me, then doing something as simple as taking a taxi won't do anything. I mean it is kind of you who attracts idiots that make assumptions—"

"You also taunted your kidnapper while he had a knife on your throat! You could have easily been killed." His grip tightened to the point where it was painful and uncomfortable.

"By a man who only knows how to harm himself. Really, I thought you would be a wee bit pleased with my lack of reaction and my own personal deduction—"

"Your assumption! You were taken because of _me _he had a knife at your throat because of _me_ and—" Oh. She understood now, even if he didn't. Carefully she pried his hands from her shoulders, clasping them between hers like he was clapping or praying. He was no longer able to make eye contact, and seemed to find the microwave to her right very interesting. A moment of simple sweet silence passed before Molly tried to say what needed to be said.

"Sherlock I know you feel bad about—"

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side." Sherlock spouted automatically, and she wondered if she had been supposed to hear it at all. This seemed like a mantra, a prayer of sorts, to keep him from feeling too much of everything the way she did. While she was overloaded with the world, he distanced himself from it, taking small snapshots of it, one at a time, in rapid succession in order for his version of the world to make sense. Good for him.

_You idolized that part of him at one point, you wanted to be like him…._

The kettle whistled, but Molly ignored it, suddenly feeling particularly displeased with Sherlock. Here he was trying to order her around for the sake of her safety, when it was his presence that endangered her in the first place. It was all to make himself feel better about a shithouse situation and at first, she had been patient with him. Then, he tries to deny the fact that he felt responsible for it and was concerned for her safety with his same bullshit he's been spouting for years. Molly prodded his chest, already tired out by this anger and wishing to simply go to bed.

_Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep._

"Have you ever thought that since the rest of the world seems to suffer from this _defect _you speak of, it might be you who is actually defected? Are you not the abnormal one? Are you not the freak?"

She knew she had hurt him, but it proved to her that he had a beating heart that that he had feelings to be hurt. In fact, he looked as if she had struck him, stumbling back and into the cabinets behind him. Immediately Molly realized how cruel her words were, drawing upon what others had said about him in the past. Sherlock didn't want his heart to be damaged and she had simply done just that with three sentences. Was the damage irreversible? Would he finally leave her like he's supposed to? He abruptly turned and walked out of the kitchen, grabbing that big black coat of his and opening the front door, slamming it behind him.

_Everyone leaves…._

Molly didn't do anything particularly dramatic like slide down to the floor and cry or lock herself in the bedroom to do a similar action. Instead she finished making her tea and then took a shower and then got dressed in some pajamas and then went to bed. She did each action slowly and deliberately and despite her exhaustion found herself staring up at the ceiling, up at the outlines of everything she loved in picture form. Since that first day, she had added pictures of some of the odd recipes she had concocted, a Doctor Who poster, a picture of her and Evan when she was little. That last one seemed so strange to her simply because of the sad look in her eyes. Even back when she was seven years old she still had that darkness that told her how things were. How things ended. The darkness was right most of the time. Everything hurts and everything ends. Rolling over, Molly finally went to sleep.

_That's good isn't it?_

She could only psych out her kidnapper long enough for rescue because she simply said what that tiny voice whispers in her ear at every waking hour, undermining everything she ever built up, ever worked for, ever liked.

_You're better off alone._

**I know, I'm evil. I wanted a wee bit of action in my story to space out the intensive character study, and I accidentally brought Sherlock and Molly's relationship into a rough patch. Oops.**

**Of all characters I have trouble writing, I have trouble writing John for some reason. I love reading Johnlocks but I can't write it for some reason (an explanation to the select few who have somehow jumped to the conclusion that I'm a homophobe because I write Sherlolly and not Johnlock and have left me rather rude PMs. My stories have nothing to do with whether or not I hang a rainbow flag in front of my house (I do btw) they're just good fun. Ship and let ship guys!)**


	6. This Crappy Kitchen

**I'm back with more! I didn't get a lot of time to write because Thanksgiving is a complete zoo in my household that turns into a week-long spectacle. At least no one pissed in the driveway this year.**

Sherlock stumbled out of the flat, quickly straightening up in order to walk purposefully. Of course, he hadn't the faintest clue where he was going—well yes he did, 221B Baker Street was a natural choice—but for some reason he wasn't taking the effort to head to the main road and hail a cab. Why didn't Molly live on a busier street? It was so irritating, everything about her was irritating. She could live with her cat for all eternity if she so wished, it wasn't worth it. He tried. He tried being kind, he tried talking things out with her, tried to understand her, and she managed to react just like everyone else. Molly turned out to be normal, sad and brilliant, but terribly normal. She never hinted that she thought he was abnormal; a freak as she so eloquently put it.

He didn't know how he expected Molly to react to being kidnapped. He doubted that she would be a sobbing damsel in distress, she was good under tremendous pressure after all, but the cool indifference, the anger—the use of that word—and the simple fact that she was right. It was his fault. She didn't actually want him there she wanted to return to living alone with her cat, collecting medicine until she had enough to overdose yet again, and then there would be no one to save, just someone to find her body. At that moment, he considered turning around, pretending like what she said didn't happen, going on with business as usual, and maybe even being mindful of the cat for once.

Molly's mind slightly terrified Sherlock. It was an irrational thing that didn't know the point of living, that could make her stare down a man with a knife and take him apart with merely her words. Sam Branson, the kidnapper in questions, was frightened of her biting analysis of his mind that in a strange way mirrored her own. He managed to commit suicide in police custody as a result. She was unpredictable, spineless one moment, and made of steel the next. She worked with death, but hated funerals. She was bright and cheerful, but sad all the same. She was meek until she was strong and then strong until she was meek. Molly was a confusing person, like a piece to a completely different puzzle and she missed the rest of said puzzle.

He noticed Elliot Browning (no longer designated as The Alcoholic in his mind) as he sat on a crate outside of his building, drinking from a large bottle of vodka a sip at a time. Why was Sherlock surrounding himself with such self-destructive people? With new resolve, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and trudged off to hail a cab. Molly was correct; Mrs. Hudson had kept his flat exactly the way it was, with the exception of John's things being moved from his room. There wasn't any absolutely dreadful stained beige carpet or cat hair everywhere he looked and his skull was still sitting on the fireplace mantle. The books wouldn't suddenly rearrange themselves—even if sorting them alphabetically by an alternate phonetic spelling of the name was clever—and there wasn't a strange little pathology assistant taping pictures of things she liked to the ceiling (two pictures of him there—no, stop thinking) in a fog of almost constant crushing sadness and sentiment.

Eventually he came to the conclusion that Molly may have been a little more stressed out by being abducted by one of his many (the list was most likely in the hundreds) than she was letting on. She was exhausted and reacted badly his attempt at—what exactly was he trying to do or say, anyway? Apologize? Tell her not to gamble with her life like that ever again? Express that he was grateful that she was unharmed? Ask forgiveness for not being able to protect her? Sherlock wanted to touch her at the time, make contact somehow, something everyone else in the world—especially Molly, seemed to find so easy. A kiss on the cheek as part of a routine, a calming hand on his shoulder sliding down over his heart as she withdrew. He didn't know how to do those sorts of things. The first time he made contact willingly was to embrace her, a huge leap from his strict policy of no contact, and that had ended badly. He settled for placing his hands on her shoulders, but she recoiled from that touch.

As the night wore on, and Sherlock paced the halls of his mind palace, Sherlock came to a single conclusion: He needed to talk to John. A text alert told him what he already needed to know; John was awake and asking how he was. Why would Sherlock need to be asked that? It was Molly who was abducted after all. Still, he made his way to John's new flat, about to knock (or pick the lock, but he still had to acknowledge that John and Mary did have a gun) when the door swung open, John standing there ready to walk out into the slightly chilly spring air.

"Oh, I was just coming to check up on you and Molly." John gave a waning smile, clasping Sherlock's shoulder, "All right, obviously you're troubled, let's go for a bit of a walk, 221B then?"

Numbly, Sherlock nodded.

Fifteen minutes later, John and Sherlock sat across from each other awkwardly sipping tea. Domestic bliss, as Sherlock had noted once before, had led to John gaining twenty pounds. At least he finally shaved that particularly awful mustache he had grown in Sherlock's absence, "So…let me guess. You said something particularly rude and _you _after Molly had _just been kidnapped. _And then she proceeded to throw you out."

Sherlock resisted the urge to wince, "I left of my own accord."

"Sherlock, what happened?"

"I may have attempted to inform her of ways to reduce the chances of it happening again and she didn't take it well."

John rolled his eyes, "And what did she say?"

"She called me a freak."

"But Sherlock people call you that all the time, I mean look at Anderson and Donovan—oh…I understand now, that hurts coming from Molly right? It hurts to hear Molly say something like that because she adored you and you care about her opinion of you. She's tired Sherlock. She wanted to be alone for a bit and you probably pushed her in your very Sherlocky way and she simply pulled a few nasty things to say to get you to leave." John was talking calmly and evenly as if he had to pick out every few words deliberately.

Usually, Sherlock would have refrained from associating with the man when John treated him like a child, but he found himself processing John's words "Yes…I figured out that much. I will apologize to her to her tomorrow afternoon, when she has had ample rest."

"That…actually Sherlock that's not a horrible plan at all. Yes sit, wait, be calm—reacquaint yourself with Mrs. Hudson or something. Molly will be fine."

So Sherlock waited, doing nearly anything in the great expanse of time to keep himself busy He had tea with Mrs. Hudson, he solved a case without even leaving the confines of 221B, and finally, he thought about what he should say to Molly. This took the greatest amount of effort, as he really didn't want her to push him away any more than she already had. Finally, he deemed that he had given her ample time to think and sped out the door in order to take a taxi to her flat. He decided it would simply be best to observe her in order to determine her state of mind before approaching Molly.

Despite the signs, and the knowledge that it did happen, Sherlock knowing and Sherlock seeing were two entirely different matters. For the first time, Sherlock saw Molly come undone. It was like something in her expression just _snapped. _All she was doing was folding laundry. He was observing her through the window, waiting for a decent time to come with his apology that he predicted—no hoped—wouldn't sound too manufactured to Molly's ears, as well as the admission that she was correct in her observations. Her face fell, a myriad of emotions displaying themselves across her features. Slowly she stepped away from the laundry pile and then began to pace the flat, tearing at her hair halfheartedly before kicking the basket over, and disappearing from Sherlock's view. Without thinking about it too much, he got down from his vantage point, crossed the street, climbed up the stairs, and entered the flat, wondering if a panicked and erratic Molly would still be angry, vaguely.

Molly lay slumped against her oven, a few stray tears streaming silently down her face as she dug a knife into the top of her exposed thigh, right above her knee. Immediately, he took the knife from her trembling hands and wrapped her in his arms, no longer caring that he was rubbish with comforting people or that Molly was still angry at him or that Molly had managed to think like everyone else and dub him 'freak'. He was holding a woman who behaved like a mere shadow of who she was supposed to be. She was supposed to be cheery scatterbrained terrible at conversations Molly Hooper, not this…this wreck. He wanted to fix it, make it all better, but he didn't know how. This was frustrating, he was supposed to be a genius after all—no he was a genius just not at this. He had to say something—anything.

"A honeybee's wings stroke eleven thousand four hundred times per minute." He blurted out.

She snorted, shifting against him "That's…how they—m-make the buzzing noise."

"Only female bees sting because the ovipositor is part of the female reproductive system. Worker bees are female but they're sterile so they don't lay eggs. Bees see all colors except for the color red in order to help them find flowers. They're not born knowing how to make honey, the younger ones are taught by their elders. The queen bee lives for about two to three years and is the only bee that lays eggs. She is the busiest in the summer months, when the hive needs to be at its maximum strength, and lays up to twenty five hundred eggs per day. Each honey bee colony has a unique odor for members' identification." He felt her relax as he continued his stream of bee facts, "They're scientific name is Apis mellifera." Somehow he maneuvered Molly partially into his lap, his left arm keeping her in place and his right interlacing with her fingers. Her head rested against his chest as she took deep even breaths.

"Bees do a silly little dance in order to communicate with each other." She murmured back to him at last.

"It's not silly." Sherlock protested, despite himself.

"Oh." Molly snorted, "Didn't mean to insult your manhood via bee there."

"Wh—bugger that—what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"The evidence is to the contrary."

"This kitchen is really small." Of course it was. Sherlock could almost touch the cabinetry on the other side of the galley style kitchen, but he wouldn't let her change the subject so easily."

"Molly—"

"I think I should definitely get a flat with a larger kitchen—"

Sherlock touched the skin next to the wound on her leg, his fingertips slick with blood, effectively silencing her, "Endorphins. Just chemicals in the brain."

"I'm sorry. Calling you a freak…I shouldn't have."

"Everyone does."

"But I'm not everyone." She took his hand from her leg and gave it a firm squeeze, "5o…I'm sorry and I suppose that—well I suppose that I should thank you, for uh…saving me that is."

"Which time?"

"Every time." Molly nuzzled him gently before sitting up, "Why is it that we always have these talks in my kitchen?"

Sherlock smirked, "It is a very rubbish kitchen, isn't it?"

"Half the time I wonder if the stovetop wants to set me on fire."

"It could possibly be conspiring with the refrigerator that my scarf caught on."

"Or they could simply be rubbish appliances." Molly hauled herself up, tossing the knife into the sink carelessly, and walking three paces to clean and bandage her wound. Sherlock supposed cutting was cheaper than drugs or a drink, but didn't want to linger on the fact that Molly _hurts herself purposely _and didn't really care or treat it like it was really the problem that he considered it.

"Decided on a place yet?"

"No. I'm going to tour a couple flats tomorrow."

"I'll come along."

"_You _would come along on such a mundane adventure as finding flats?" Her disbelief was more amused than biting by that point.

"You would think that I would actually let you and your absolutely poor tastes dictate a move that affects me as well?"

"Sherlock…." Molly's voice changed to a warning tone, but he waved it off dismissively.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Well I was going to say that we ought to negotiate some terms for living together then."

"Boring—"

"But necessary if you don't want to join the missing person's list because there will be no forensic evidence." Molly replied dryly, "I'm looking at three bedrooms so one bedroom for each no invading each other's spaces unwarranted, a room to put all of your weird crap in—and yes, yes it is crap to me and will remain so—you must pay for your existence, which will include half the rent. No taking cases home with you, as Baker Street should suffice for that, no playing violin while I'm sleeping, no experimenting on my cat, oh and you have to take me on a case every once in a while—"

"Absolutely not."

"Which doesn't suit your fancy?"

"You are unsuitable for casework—"

"And why is that?"

"Because—" Sherlock fumbled for an excuse, finding that he actually had very little, "You wouldn't be able to keep up."

"Intellectually or physically?"

"Obviously intel—"

"Sherlock you haven't slept in three days, you went and saw John last night, had tea with Mrs. Hudson, stood on the fire escape on the building across from my flat for a good thirty minutes before coming in, and you've read my diaries." Her voice was flat, and only a slight inflection at the end alerted him that she was not at all at peace with that fact.

"You've been paying attention."

"I always pay attention, jackass. You just never let me actually speak before." Molly snapped, "Just for the diaries, I should demand the world of you, but it is only a small set of measly terms to keep me from going insane with having you around because for some idiotic reason you've become a fixture in my life and I don't feel like wasting energy trying to cut you out of it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I agree to your terms."

"Good." Molly kissed his cheek, poked his nose, and then left the kitchen.

Molly and Sherlock both found that they got a field day out of their realtor. Tiffany Graves was an astoundingly cheerful and snobbish woman who was obviously engaged in a string of affairs and an unhappy marriage. She wore far too much makeup, her hair had suffered thirty-two years of abuse, and her nails were long and razor sharp. She still managed to idolize romantic notions of the world and hoped that someday she would actually find someone to have a storybook ending with. It was all entirely boring; however Molly introduced the entertaining game of fulfilling her expectation that they were a couple. She took his arm and laced her fingers in his, listening to the woman as she talked about crown molding and other nonsense he would have to delete, but only after they had their fun. Molly chattered back affably, giggling in response to something's and nodding when she could barely contain her laughter.

"I don't know, I think four bedrooms might be a bit much…." Molly clucked, peering into a bedroom.

"Oh but you must think about the future!" Mrs. Graves swung her head almost wildly, her artificial curls following suit, "Children are fickle creatures that demand space—"

"Children aren't exactly in the cards."

"But you must! At our age we're practically—"

"I can't have children." Molly replied in a flat and blunt manner, causing the woman to stiffen in shock before Molly's face cracked into a wide smile, "So that's not a big deal."

The realtor blinked, "Oh, I'm so—"

"Oh it's fine!" Molly laughed it off easily, "And even if I did have children, I would prefer a house with a proper garden for them."

"Would you prefer to look at houses, Molly?"

"Oh I could add a couple houses to our round easily!"

"That would be lovely." Sherlock spoke before Molly could protest. She gave a microscopic shrug, probably determining that it had the possibility to be fun.

Sherlock and Molly were quite a bit more alike than he would ever care to admit. They were both clever, observant, and either desperately needed entertainment or else the monotonous nature of life would prove too much for them to bear. Molly was still kinder, gentler, more in tune with everyone's emotions. She knew exactly how to comfort people, often wordlessly. He remembered, back when he was on the run, the way she would open the door before he even knocked, and would let him into the flat no matter what. Usually, with the exception of the Bell Jar conversation, she didn't speak to him. There was simply food when he needed it—really needed it, not just the John version of needing it—tea and coffee ready for the few hours he spend there, a gentle touch on his shoulder before she was off to bed, and the unspoken agreement not to talk about John. Sherlock didn't even ponder the possibility that the same perceptiveness she used so often for comfort could be used as a bloodless weapon.

Molly to him was like an anchor or a rock, a column that was completely stable, holding him up, always there, always steady. He hadn't realized that she was about as steady as a rocking chair during an earthquake. She was fine now, but only the night before she was playing with knives in his absence. Irrationally, he felt a bit like this instability of hers was a betrayal of sorts, like he had been tricked into thinking painted plywood was a brick wall.

Her loud laugh separated him from his thoughts. She and Mrs. Graves were talking about something particularly silly in the other room, and he realized he had never heard Molly actually laugh like that. Nervous laughter had been annoyingly common. The deranged laughter Molly partook in while taunting her abductor was chilly and disturbing, something he decided he never wanted to hear again. Her angry I—Still—Really—Don't—Like—Shouting laughter was usually directed at him. A few snorts at the telly were mainly for one of her assorted idiotic shows. But real honest, This—Is—Hysterical and I'm—Pleased laughter? He never heard it before. Molly never really laughed like that in his presence. She was always nervous, angry, mildly amused, or ignoring him—the last being completely unacceptable.

But when he wasn't around, something horrible always seemed to happen—and there was no other word for it, it was horrible. He didn't want to be constantly holding her hand throughout life like she was a six year old with a habit of running into traffic, but he didn't want her to get herself killed either. The best course of action was to somehow make her happy. He had little concept of it, but he reasoned that if he managed to take away everything she disliked—the small kitchen, the stains on the carpet, his behavioral experiments on Toby—he could inch closer to a time where he could let go of her hand without fear of finding her in the morgue.

Molly returned to the room, pressing her lips against Sherlock's cheek, "Let's go then. We can always come back if this one's the best."

Molly dragged him through five more flats and three houses (so that part was his fault, however it was still tedious) before deciding that the first flat would work. Of course Sherlock knew it would, it was twenty minutes closer to St Barts, at a sufficient size for the pair of them, and most of all had a kitchen that she liked. Black and white tile walls, white cabinets, black countertops, and a stovetop that looked like it belonged in the twenty-first century, fairly large for the city of London. Sherlock knew that it was just another stage for her to make kitchen wrecking food that usually only she ate, and caramelize onions in the middle of the night, but it would suffice.

That night, Sherlock and Molly returned to her dumpy little one bedroom flat she rented out of unnecessary frugality, still arm in arm. She listened to him as he spoke of his more interesting cases, the details that John always failed to put in his ridiculous blog. Molly however, stopped at the door, glancing over towards Elliot Browning's building, "I told him I'd stop by."

With those words, she extricated herself from his now limp grasp and crossed the street. In the morning, she returned, freshly showered, wearing wrinkled clothes and men's deodorant. Sherlock wanted to comment, take apart the previous night's activities, but found that for the first time, he couldn't form words.

**Happy late Thanksgiving for all of my fellow Americans! I hope I did John okay, he's so hard to write, and I think it's because I'm actually a lot like him so it makes me a tiny bit self-conscious, oddly enough. Also I know nothing about bees. They're cool, I went to a bee farm when I was like six, but all the facts are off google, so feel free to correct me.**


	7. Concerned Brothers And Missed Calls

**I got asked if I listen to sad music while writing sad scenes and if so, give a bit of the playlist. So I decided to publish it here instead of PM back for anyone else who happened to be interested.**

**1. Summertime Sadness—Lana Del Rey**

**2. Opheliac—Emilie Autumn**

**3. Katie—Missy Higgins**

**4. Firewood—Regina Spector**

**5. Born to die—Lana Del Rey (been on a bit of a Lana kick recently)**

**6. Almost Lover—A Fine Frenzy**

**7. I Miss You—Blink 182**

**8. Someone Like You—Adele**

**9. Alexandra Leaving—Sharon Robinson**

**10. Suzanne—Leonard Cohen**

**Here's the usual about me not owning Sherlock or anything else referenced whether on purpose or by accident. **

Molly's first thought when she woke was that Elliot's bed was particularly warm and inviting. She rolled her eyes at herself, swinging her legs over the edge and walked across the room to hop into the shower. She made a quick job out of washing herself off, putting on one of Elliot's button up shirts until she was completely dry. When she walked out, Elliot was awake, much to her chagrin. She meant to walk out of the flat without his knowledge, and return to her strange and surreal sometimes Twilight Zone like life. She and Sherlock would be moving out within the month, meaning that awkward encounters with Elliot would soon be removed from the picture. She didn't quite know what to actually say to him. He sat up, watching her as if she was about to disappear. It wasn't an entirely inaccurate thought on his part.

"I thought you had left." He knew exactly what she had planned to do.

Smiling, Molly shook her head and settled on the edge of the bed, "No. Not yet."

"I can cook!" Elliot was so over enthusiastic, so eager. Molly couldn't help but smile.

"That sounds lovely."

They settled in his tiny, cluttered kitchen, eating eggs on toast. Molly could the ticking clock, see the booze in the open cabinet. He had quite the collection.

_He doesn't actually expect you to stay, does he?_

"We're moving."

"Oh." Elliot's voice is too flat. It's the sort of voice people use when they want to sound casual when in reality they really are surprised.

"Nicer place, closer to the hospital." Molly rattled off calmly taking a sip of her coffee, "Bigger too."

Sometimes despair came to crush her. Other times it lingered in the back of her mind. In this case, it happened to creep up on her, sinking it's claws into her, ready to lash out at those around her. He was so kind and yet here she was treating him like an overly extended one night stand. She could honestly say she had never been in his position before. She never saw sex as anything more than an act. It was usually her partner that saw something more, but even then, she usually picked real winners who had wives to return to (only to cheat on again, they always did, after all) or were only searching for the same thing she was; One time and then move on, preferably STD free.

"Do you love him?" Elliot's voice roused Molly from her musings.

"Hmmm?"

"Sherlock Holmes. You know, the man you live with. Do you love him?" There was the tiniest hint of bitterness in Elliot's voice.

Molly could explain to Elliot that it wasn't that simple. She could explain how technically she was single with an ass of a roommate who stuck around to keep her from giving in to the shapeless despair that she was all too familiar with. She knew it was stupid and silly, but Sherlock was capable of chasing it away, of making her breath like a normal unburdened human being, He also couldn't be dragged down by someone like her. Elliot was a completely different story. If she told him that she didn't love Sherlock, then…then there would be more sleepovers, food in the mornings and evenings, dates, laughter—normal things that normal people partook in. He was too nice, too kind, too willing, too eager. If the perspectives were flipped, then Molly could easily see herself as the bitch, stringing along a poor decent man.

_Admit it, you are in love with Sherlock Holmes..._

"It's safe to say this was a mistake." Molly said instead, skillfully avoiding the question, and putting her plate in the sink and rinsing it.

Elliot came up behind her, snaking his arms around her waist and kissing her neck, "Was it?"

"A very lovely mistake, but I won't be repeating it."

"Has anyone ever told you that you can be extremely cold?" She really did not like his hot breath against her neck.

Worming her way out of his hold, she smiled, "I'm sorry, I'm awful aren't I? I've got to go to." She quickly changed into her clothes from the previous night.

When she returned, Molly braced herself for a verbal attack, but received nothing. Sherlock was oddly quiet as she went about packing the things they could go without for the week, however she could constantly feel his eyes following her. At two she clocked into work, and she got home late that night to find Mycroft Holmes sitting in front of her. She only met him once, at Sherlock's small funeral. Back then he gave her a conspiratorial glance and nothing more. Now he sat at her kitchen table, looking far too stately among the boxes and second hand furniture and the slightly falling apart kitchen.

_Oh, look, it's actual proof that Sherlock came from something as normal as a family..._

"Tea?" She asked, deciding not to question it as she shuffled past him into the kitchen.

"Yes, if you may."

"Honey?"

"Impressive deduction."

"Not a deduction. A guess." Molly shrugged, putting a kettle of water on the stove top before turning towards him with her arms crossed, "Well?"

"Miss Hooper I thought we could be civil."

"We are civil unless of course you have a reason not to be." Molly smiled, "You are a guest in my home at the moment." There was a lull in conversation, and Molly found herself preparing two cups of tea, sitting across from the elder Holmes brother and taking a sip of hers. She found that she didn't fear Mycroft, nor did she particularly find his company comfortable.

"Domestic tranquility seems to suit you and my brother for now." Mycroft's eyes never left hers as he spoke, drinking her tea and wrinkling his nose, "Cheap tea."

"Yes. I drink cheap tea. I prefer the taste." Molly wished Mycroft would get to the point. No man visited someone just to comment on their tea.

"Sherlock doesn't love. He is mostly above such sentiments. He will soon tire of you, and he will soon tire of living so quietly. A pleasantly large flat near the hospital, a cat, and having him around every time you feel particularly lonely—it won't last, Miss Hooper. I wish to make sure you are aware of that."

Molly felt her smile widen considerably, as she leaned forward on her elbows, "You know…I adore people like you." Mycroft didn't seem to have expected that answer, "You think that you know everything about everyone, and you act on it without even considering the possibility that you're wrong. You're treating me like a stupid insipid and borderline delusional teenager who cannot see past her own nose. You came here under the assumption that I'm using Sherlock for comfort and as an anchor, correct?"

_Aren't you?_

"Is that assumption wrong?"

"Sherlock is here because he wants to be. If I could take a peek into his brain and figure out why exactly that is, I'd let you know. I'd also solve a whole lotta other mysteries about his psyche while I'm at it. He's a good friend, believe it or not." Molly smiled, "Really I just want to be left in peace. I do not want to make an enemy out of you." Yes, Molly had grown used to Sherlock's presence, and yes she would be lonely without him, but the moment he wanted to leave, she would let him. It would be far too selfish to use him as her security blanket for the rest of her life. Besides, she wasn't capable of tying him down.

"I do not wish for that either." Mycroft seemed a bit more uncomfortable with the situation.

"Don't you have a government to run?" Molly raised an eyebrow at him, giving him a half smile and a cock of her head.

"…It may be that I have underestimated you."

"To the point that you admit that? Wow. I feel special. Do I get a prize?" Molly snapped up in posture and dramatically clapped for him.

"This arrangement may not be harmful to you, but it might be to Sherlock." Of course, Molly had considered that, but how the bloody hell could Sherlock Holmes be bogged down by someone as insignificant as Molly Hooper?

"How do you figure?" She leaned against the palm of her hand, stirring her tea.

"Have you ever seen my brother mourn, Miss Hooper?"

Molly stiffened, suddenly feeling cold."Can't say I have."

_You wouldn't be there to see him, isn't that good?_

"It's not a pretty sight." He stood up, taking his umbrella from the stand by the door, "Good day, Miss Hooper."

Molly let out a breath of relief that she did not know she was holding, slumping against the chair as Sherlock stomped in, tossing his prized coat at the hook and letting it slide to the ground as it missed, "Did he offer you money?"

"Oh? He does that? Might have to flag him down then." Molly let out a giggle, the coldness ebbing away the way it usually did when he was around.

"I'll take that as a no then. What did he want?"

"It seemed like he was just worried about his baby brother."

"That's rarely ever the case."

_Sometimes the simplest answer is in fact the correct one..._

"I don't know. He was here then poof! Gone! Well except he didn't go poof he walked out the door like a normal person, but you get the gist of it and I'm rambling now aren't I?" Molly smiled and looked down at her largely untouched cup of tea. Suddenly she jolted up, "Oh shit. I forgot Evan's coming to visit. He'll know I got off work fifteen minutes ago." Two overly protective brothers in one day spelled trouble if anything did. Molly stood up before the bell rang, and opened the door, throwing her arms around Evan, "Oh hello! Come on in." Sherlock seemed frozen in his place by the bedroom door staring Evan down, no doubt deducing him.

"You must be the famous Sherlock Holmes, private detective and whatnot."

"Not famous and not a private detective. Consulting detective." Sherlock replied.

Molly didn't like the tense air between them, laughing nervously, "Sherlock's always been a bit of a stickler for details. I'll get you some tea so sit down."

Instead of sitting as Molly asked, Evan approached Sherlock, sizing him up. Sherlock was a good three inches taller and having the experience of a war hero and an ego the size of a whale, he was not intimidated by her brother despite Evan's best efforts. Molly would have found the sight comical if she wasn't still a bit shaken up by Mycroft's visit. It was just her luck to have one right after the other.

"Molly tells me you're moving into a flat together. I'm assuming congratulations are in order." He looked around the flat as if about to make a biting comment, but ultimately holding it back.

"Personally, I didn't realize that moving into a flat, a basic thing just about any imbecile can do, required a congratulations." Sherlock replied stiffly.

More silence. Molly sighed, bringing Evan his cup of tea, and settling down in front of him, "So what would you like to talk about?"

"You're most recent…attempt. We found it most troubling." Evan glanced at Sherlock, "Look, can we be alone for this?"

"No I'd quite like to be here for whatever drivel you manage to come up with considering the fact that you're obviously tired of checking up on your sister and you happen to need a fairly sizable amount of money because you and your partner are chronically spending more money than you are making and realize that Molly has quite a bit saved up. You're worried about her obtaining a larger and more expensive flat because she may not be as willing to give you handouts. Once you may have been worried more about her wellbeing but now you're simply hoping you're still in the will. Which you aren't." Molly sank down in her chair during Sherlock's speech, avoiding eye contact from either party. She would have liked to do everything in a more subtle manner, however subtly was ultimately lost on Sherlock. She really didn't need Evan storming off.

_Let him storm off. Let him be angry with you. Let him hate you. It's better for him to hate you._

"Well who are you going to leave it to then? You've got no other family."

"Charities, Evan. It would go to a list of charities. It wouldn't have been enough to sustain your lifestyle forever anyway." Molly looked down at her hands, "Thank you for being concerned for me. I'm fine. I really am."

"If he were concerned he wouldn't be living all the way in Scotland—"

"You don't know what it was like growing up with her!" Evan exploded, hitting the table so hard that Molly jumped, letting out a little squeak without meaning to, "Dad was always constantly frightened that she was going to off herself randomly, and even after he died, it was constant watching, constant worrying, and eventually figuring out that _Molly will never be okay! _What am I supposed to do? Waste my life on her until I find her lying dead and realize that I invested so much into her? Don't you _dare _judge me! I come and visit every once in a while like a normal bloke does. If she wants to see me more often she can come see me! But she doesn't!" He was up on his feet now, toe to toe with Sherlock, brown eyes hitting gray.

"I took care of you after Dad died." Molly half whispered, suddenly feeling very cold and distant from it all, never looking directly at the two men.

"And then the instant I'm eighteen you decide to overdose—God damn it Molly, did it ever occur that I still needed you?!" There were tears now.

Molly hated it when Evan cried. She hated it when anyone cried, making it difficult to stomach actually becoming a doctor that worked on living people. She never liked being the one inflicting the pain. Healing it could hurt more than the actual injury itself and she simply couldn't handle that. Slowly, Molly rose to her feet, pressing a hand on Evan's shoulder, "I won't give you money and that is for your own good." Her voice shook slightly and suddenly she felt like the mouse she was before killing a man, resurrecting a man, almost killing herself, living with Sherlock, and being kidnapped, "I will only say this once, Evan; I do care about you and I want you to be all right. You can't fill an empty life with pretty things so get off your ass and live within your means. Next time you come to see me, I don't want you to ask me for money, I don't want you to be bitter with me for past events, and I really, really don't want you ever to wear that jumper again it's hideous."

"Says the woman with a cat jumper."

"At least mine has a cuteness factor yours is just…blah. Gift from David, I suppose?"

"I had to wear it at least once."

"And you wear it to beg your sister for money and berate her for your behavior? Dear me, I did raise you wrong." Molly ruffled his hair, "Glad you got that off your chest?"

"Yes." Evan muttered meekly.

"Good. Now you can get the hell out of my flat." Molly took him by the collar and practically dragged the man across the room opening the door and stuffing him out into the corridor. She turned, hugging herself, "I could have handled that quite a bit better."

"You would have appeased him as you always had." Sherlock replied gruffly.

"And there would be peace on earth." Molly rolled her eyes, "What is with visiting me at night?"

"Simple; Mycroft knew you'd be awake and your brother is an idiot."

"He's not—"

"He is." Sherlock snapped, "And you know it, so why bother?"

_He is bothersome, but for some idiotic reason you love him..._

Molly shrugged, "Because I like to bother. Now I'm going to bother you. You didn't sleep last night either. That's four days without sleep so I'm giving you your marching orders."

Sherlock, having grown used to her sudden changes of subject, rolled his eyes and simply went with it, "You're sofa is an unacceptable resting place."

"Then take my bed."

"But then where would you sleep."

"Well there's this revolutionary thing called 'sharing a bed' that I can introduce you to."

"And why didn't you introduce me to the concept sooner?"

"I thought I'd let you suffer with the thirty year old sofa." Molly rolled her eyes, "Now off to bed, I'm taking a shower first."

When Molly deemed it time to go to bed, she found that Sherlock was already passed out sprawled over most of the full sized mattress. Apparently when he needed sleep it would hit him like a brick wall. She climbed in beside him, shifting in order to make herself comfortable. He took up more space than she predicted, forcing her back to barely press against his side as she curled up in a ball. Within moments, she drifted off to sleep. At about five in the morning, Molly woke up to find that Sherlock had managed to wrap himself around her, rather intricately, his legs tangled in hers and his arm thrown over her waist. Scowling at this particularly strange predicament, she pried his limbs off of her and stood up, ready for the day.

_On and on you go, aren't you tired yet? Four missed calls from Elliot Browning, seems he still likes you after all, I can't see why..._

After that, even after they moved into the flat designed for more than one person, a new habit was formed by Sherlock sleeping in Molly's bed when he actually slept, regardless of the perfectly suitable bedroom on the other side of the new flat. By then, Molly had reluctantly decided not to question his actions. A month passed quietly, a serial killer new to London being apprehended, and an increase in traffic accidents leading to longer nights at the morgue. An argument still managed to spring from stress, worry, and lack of sleep in the mist of a case that was particularly trying. At least, that's what it looked like to Molly. She felt his grip on her arm as she was yanked out of the way of a taxi that went whizzing past, so close that she could feel it. She turned around to find Sherlock in a state of great distress, still holding her arm so tightly it was almost painful.

"Pay more attention, Molly." He snapped.

"Oh. Oops."

This was apparently exactly the wrong thing to say, "Oops? You almost get yourself and probably a cabbie killed, and all you have to say is 'oops'?"

"Well I didn't think it would be very nice to say "Whoopsie daisies." Molly rolled her eyes rubbing her forehead, "Sorry Sherlock, I was zoning I—"

He made a few deductions, simple and cruel deductions about the shithouse day and shithouse week she had been having, as well as her idiotic tendency to not pay attention to what was going on around her. At first, Molly tried to argue back, but she found that it was to no avail in his tirade. She hadn't had time to wait it out and allow him to calm himself down and resolve the row naturally. Sighing, Molly jerked her arm away from his grip, turning to return to the hospital as it most appropriately began to rain. At two, Molly finally returned home, taking a warming shower before dressing in comfortable nightclothes and sinking into bed. Even then it still took a moment for her mind to wind down to the slow speed her body demanded. She breathed deeply, inhaling the familiar scent of her pillow. Molly was far too tired to even consider chopping and caramelizing onions.

_Seven missed calls from Elliot Browning..._

The front door opened, jolting Molly awake. She vaguely heard him come through the bedroom door and felt the bed dip beneath his weight before she was fully awake. Without turning towards him, Molly patiently waited for him to say whatever he wished; further admonishment, an apology. She didn't care. It was for his benefit, not hers.

"I solved the case."

"Oh. Who was doing it?"

"The contractor." She felt Sherlock shift awkwardly. "I apologize."

"For what?" Molly turned to face Sherlock, despite the semi darkness that shrouded his face; she found that he looked gaunt and tired, almost like sparse nights he spent with her during his death. "You've done nothing wrong." All he did was behave like Sherlock did; rude and impulsive.

"I was carried away in the case and your…'zoning' forced me to come out of my Mind Palace. I was irritated further by your attempts to laugh it off. There was also...also the fact that the contractor was targeting your type."

"My type?" Molly echoed, prepared for his usual comment about repetitiveness.

Instead she felt a tentative hand on her waist, "Petite. Long brown hair. Brown eyes. Ages twenty-eight through thirty-five. Attractive. And you weren't paying attention." He murmured the last part to himself, "They never pay any attention..."

_I wonder what the chances of you being knocked off by that serial killer would be if Sherlock hadn't been on the case..._

Molly wondered how difficult that was for him to say, "Get up for a moment, will you?" Sherlock obeyed surprisingly quickly, allowing her to lift the covers, "Sleep here. You look like you haven't in days."

He nodded, sitting down, stiffly taking off his jacket and his shoes. Awkwardly, Sherlock laid down next to her, letting Molly drop the covers over him. For one long moment, they laid in a silence that for once wasn't all that comfortable. It was the silence extroverts spoke of, a frightening expanse that should be filled with words rather than two people simply existing within their own heads. Molly had no idea what to say, opting to keep the floor open for Sherlock. The man who never seemed to be at a loss for words will speak eventually, she was sure of it (although every time he was speechless, it seemed to always involve her). She would just have to give him a little time.

It suddenly felt as if a switch was flipped, as Sherlock turned to face her, drawing her close to him in his own strangely comfortable embrace, one hand tangling in her damp hair, the other wrapped around her waist and holding her hand, stroking her wrist, "You frightened me again, Molly Hooper." He admitted at last, his lips against her cheek. Molly's breath caught in her throat as he turned his head, his mouth brushing against hers ever so softly. She couldn't think. She could only stare at him blankly, watching his relaxed face and closed eyes.

"I'm sorry." She whispered to his sleeping form, tracing his jawline with her index finger before succumbing to sleep herself.

_Oh. You're screwed._

**There we have it: Chapter 7. Let's all throw confetti in the air! Or not...**

**Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing, you have no idea how much it actually means to me!**


	8. Storm In The Mind Palace

**So I would like to say thank you for all the wonderful and fantastic reviews! Here's more scene music if you are interested, simply skip over if you would like, and these ones especially remind me of this Molly.**

**1. ****Bullet—Hollywood Undead****2. ****God Help Me—Emilie Autumn****3. ****The Scientist—Coldplay****4. ****Dirty Magic—The Offspring****5. ****The Art of Suicide—Emilie Autumn**

**And some more cheerful stuff!**

**1. ****Girls! Girls! Girls!—Emilie Autumn (absolutely hysterical)****2. ****Here's your freaking song—Bowling For Soup****3. ****Sweet As Whole—Sara Barielles ****4. ****I Don't Care—Fall Out Boy****5. ****Gentlemen Aren't Nice—Emilie Autumn**

**This chapter is about half the normal length for a reason, because I need a few things to occur from Molly's perspective sooner rather than later. Also I'd like to say, thank you for bearing with me and all my un beta'ed glory! I'll have to go through some of my stories (especially Not My Name) and start editing the living crap out of them.**

Sherlock considered himself to be an intelligent and rational person—no he knew he was and knew very well that he was a genius. Despite this, he could find no logical reason for why he decided to kiss Molly the night before. He had been exhausted and it had been almost instinctual, more of pressing his mouth against hers before falling asleep than anything else, nothing particularly substantial. It still managed to invade his mind palace when he was supposed to be organizing thoughts on the case. Molly's chapped lips, her frowning against his instead of responding, and her hitched breathing all drowned out a serial killer awaiting trial behind bars and a clever little mystery that had been solved in the end. He could solve nearly any mystery after all.

He was roused from sleep when she pulled herself out of the bed in order to get ready for work and decided to wait until he heard the door close before he leapt out of bed in order to pace back and forth. Sherlock eventually made his way to the kitchen where he was stopped by a plate with a piece of the chicken Kiev Molly made the night before. Listening to his body's demands, he sat at the table and picked up the note resting nearby.

_Sherlock,_

_If you don't eat this I will kill you. Seeing as that's a pretty empty threat and you are perfectly capable of disposing of the chicken in a creative way I have not considered, do what you want. I'd prefer you eat it, but if you don't give it to a person who would actually want it like I don't know, one of your clever homeless people. Yes. I know about that. Well see you tonight unless I don't. Funny how the world works that way._

_Molly_

There wasn't any indication that she was at all shaken by Sherlock's own earth shattering epiphany. Her handwriting was steady, if a bit hasty, and the writing style in general was quite casual. Apparently what was earth shattering over the edge, confusing, frightening, not all together unwelcome, and above all else completely foreign to Sherlock was simply another thing for Molly to shrug at. It didn't seem fair that she could just ignore his actions no matter how un Sherlock like they were simply because he was weird and did odd things and she rarely questioned it unlike John. In this case it was maddening because he had absolutely no idea what he was doing or how he should approach the situation or even if he should at all. Were they supposed to ignore this indiscretion?

Sherlock ate everything on the plate as he thought because somehow Molly would figure out what he did to the chicken and yes maybe he was a little hungry. Also it would slow down the metaphorical torrential downpour of thoughts wreaking havoc in his poor unsuspecting mind palace. Rolling his eyes at himself, he picked up his mobile and sent a text to Molly.

_We talk about it tonight. No exceptions save life or death circumstance-SH_

In the meantime, Sherlock required his sentiment translator on standby: John. He thought about his text thoroughly before sending, as he didn't want to do so during work (John was off today anyway) and even if he interrupted Mary time (She's so demanding; Molly never complains about a lack of time together—you're not a couple though—is that a couplely thing? He really needed John NOW) and didn't need to ostracize a trusted source else he had to turn to the pretentious idiots on the internet that haven't seen the light of day in a month.

_I require your assistance—SH_

Two minutes later John replied.

_I'm not going to skip out on Mary to go on a case again so soon._

Sherlock refrained from throwing his across the room, instead typing out a hasty text.

_Not a case.-SH_

Well maybe it was a case; The Case of Confused Detective—Mental Note: do not tell John that one, he'll actually use it.

_Then what is it?_

_Molly—SH_

_I'll bring food_

_Already Eaten—SH_

_That's a surprise._

_Molly made chicken—SH_

_Wait Molly made you eat?_

_Do keep up—SH_

With that, Sherlock tossed the mobile to the side steepling his hands beneath his chin. When John arrived, Sherlock barely took any notice as he tried to sort out the Molly Problem in a last ditch attempt not to involve someone who would laugh at his fumbling explanations and confusion. Finally he sighed, turning towards John, "I kissed her."

John nodded, surprisingly not too surprised by this confession, "Figured as much. And?"

"And…I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Must you echo everything I say?"

"Sorry Sherlock it's just that…okay, well how did she react?"

"She didn't. Then I fell asleep."

"Eating, sleeping, and kissing, very non Sherlockian activities."

"I'm aware." This was no good, they were getting absolutely nowhere in this conversation. John was obviously distracted, most likely by something involving Mary. His hand kept twitching towards his pocket—not where he usually kept his phone—indicating that something was there that he wanted to keep safe, "You're planning on proposing."

John jumped, but other than that didn't seem too particularly surprised, "Yeah a bit—well no not a bit, you can't kind of sort of propose to someone can you? Mary and I have already decided on a short engagement period and a honeymoon in Bali…so it's simply a formality I'd like to get right." He rolled his eyes, "And I'm going to regret this most likely, but you're best man; no objections."

Sherlock had seen the proposal coming a mile off, even the fact that it would generally be a mutual decision from the start. Mary Morstan wasn't the sort to stand aside and take such things passively. Earlier on, he would have been displeased with John, but Molly proved to be a more than adequate substitute—and Molly was back at the front of his mind palace, still a completely unavoidable subject. He stood up and began pacing for the second time that day, contemplating throwing a "little hissy fit" as Molly often put it and trying to form the words he was searching for in his vast vocabulary.

"What do I do?" He finally asked.

"Depends. For sure you are going to have to talk to her." John gave a small smile, standing up to force Sherlock to pause in his pacing by literally getting in his way, "Tell me, do you like her?"

"Obviously it would be very difficult to room with a person you loathe."

"Sherlock, you know very well what I mean. You like her as…uhm in terms of seeing her as a potential mate—bleck that still sounds bad and muddy doesn't it. Okay like sexual attraction mixed with affection—romantically! Ha found the word!" While John celebrated his mini victory at not completely fumbling with his explanation, Sherlock's mind was reeling.

Romantically? That silly word that described a mixture of chemical reactions in the brain, the generic human need for interpersonal relationships, and the biological desire to produce offspring? That was an absolutely ridiculous theory as he and Molly preferred to be alone—except when sharing the bed, that made sleeping much more pleasant—and didn't have the desire to endure the physical, emotional, and financial burden of procreating. Yet some tiny—previously squashed, unnoticed, or nonexistent—sappy part of his brain told him it made sense. The chemical reactions were there, even if he didn't actually wish to reproduce—this was when he remembered that he was thinking about _Molly _that way, and he suddenly had the urge to punch a wall.

John stood, waiting for Sherlock's internal crisis to cease before speaking again, "Well now that we've established that, I think you need to behave like a big-boy. So…sit down and attempt to discuss this with Molly without offending her."

"She tends to be far more understanding than you seem to realize, John."

"Hmm...well she somehow managed to feed you up."

John didn't say much after that, once again leaving Sherlock to his thoughts, and then eventually he physically left the flat. There was only so much sorting and organizing he could do before he was bored and desired outside stimulation. Eventually, after hours of agonizing boredom, Molly returned, tossing her bag down by the door and pulling off her jacket. Immediately Sherlock stood, wondering in hindsight if that would convince her to simply fly out the door. Molly held her ground, stiffly putting her coat up and walking to the kitchen to pour a tall glass of water. She stood in silence, watching him as he sat back down.

"Let's be quick about this." Her voice startled him, "I will ask you a yes or no question, and you will answer it."

Sherlock scowled, but nodded.

"Did you kiss me?"

"Yes." Did she mean that as some sort of control question?

"Did you mean to?"

"No."

"Would you like to pretend that this never happened then?"

"Would you?"

"My thoughts on the matter are entirely irrelevant."

She wasn't lying, she truly believed what she said and that left Sherlock at a loss, "If you truly believe that, then I've failed."

"Failed at what, Sherlock?"

"Fixing you."

Molly let out a loud, watery laugh at that, choking on an unfortunately timed sip of water, she continued to laugh until Sherlock grew concerned approaching her and turning her around to face him, "Oh Sherlock! I'm not a broken toy or computer that simply needs tape and glue—you can't fix me." She giggled maniacally for a moment later, only stopping entirely when she looked at Sherlock's face.

He imagined he looked stunned and hurt because really, that's what he was. Molly's behavior was still entirely too strange for him to deduce, swinging wildly as if she had little control over it. There was the girl who was laughing loud enough to drown out the silent sobs and the woman apathetic to her own existence. She was in pain, but she laughed, why was that? Did she think he could be fooled by this act? Sherlock knew very well when Molly was having an off day—well more off than usual, she had her own scale after all—no matter what she said or what she did. Molly suddenly moved forward, resting her head against his chest, her right hand over his heart.

"Sherlock just because you've done something silly doesn't mean that—"

"I would like to kiss you again." Sherlock interrupted her, watching her for any sign—increased heart rate, dilated pupils, a slight flush—and he managed to add on a "That is if you wan—"

Tentatively, Molly reached up and touched Sherlock's cheek, effectively silencing him, sliding her hand around to the back of his head, burying her hand in his hair and dragging his face down to hers. She obviously meant to remain gentle, but Sherlock had no patience, pressing her up against the counter holding her firmly by her shoulders. For one moment, his mind was blank save for Molly's lips on his, Molly's hands, one lying flat over his heart, the other in his hair, Molly's tongue, Molly's scent, Molly's hair. Eventually her name was the only thing being repeated in his mind; Molly. Molly. Molly. Molly. Molly. Molly. Molly. Molly. Molly. Molly.

She was the first to pull away, Sherlock barely able to contain his disappointment. Sometime during the kiss, Sherlock had hoisted Molly up on the countertop, her legs wrapped around him, hooked behind his back. His arms were wrapped tightly around her, giving her no way out, no way to avoid him a moment longer, and no way to lie to him when she was so close and he could observe every microscopic change in her. For a moment Molly rested her forehead against his but then she shifted, burying her nose at the crook of his neck. Sherlock felt her tremble, felt her tears on his skin He didn't think that it was commonplace to cry after a pleasurable experience, but he felt like he shouldn't comment on it, as sentiment was running completely rampant, making it easy to cast misjudgment on such things.

"For what you lack in experience, you certainly make up in enthusiasm." She muttered, letting her legs fall back against the cabinets and removing her arms from around his neck. "I'm in need of sleep however." She jumped down and left Sherlock standing there, still overwhelmed and still trying to catch his breath.

**Oh! In the light of recent events I would like to post a quote (I do adore quotes) from Nelson Mandela: "I learned that courage was not the absence of fear but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquerors that fear."**


	9. Storm In The Mind Palace pt 2

**That was the first time I ever wrote a detailed kissing scene. Usually I go all Princess Bride on it and give the characters privacy or I say "they kissed." But Anton Chekov said "Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the light on the broken glass" so I decided to take said advice. Hmmm at this rate I could be making a living writing erotic novels by the time I'm sixty. Progress!**

**Also I am shamelessly promoting my sister ghostwriterlondon13 and her recent story Bad Code if anyone is in the mood for some Dark Molly. So go and tell her that's not how concussions work and so on and so forth.**

_Oh snogging him now? _

In her haste, she accidentally knocked her elbow on the doorknob, but Molly successfully closed the bedroom door behind her without any other interferences, hesitating momentarily before locking it. She knew it wouldn't be much deterrence from Sherlock, but she hoped he could respect the boundary she was attempting to set. She curled up in her bed alone, trying to tuck the blankets in around her and began trying to process the kiss. Yes, Sherlock was rusty, a bit greedy, and had no sense of the word 'gentle' but he did well enough…and that was the problem. Molly could handle a thoughtless and cruel but brilliant man. She could handle a nosy roommate. She could handle an odd friend. But Molly didn't know if she could handle a Sherlock who wanted to kiss her, a Sherlock who wanted to touch her, and a Sherlock who suddenly wanted to express emotions that she only recently discovered actually existed. It was fantastic that he was actually acknowledging that he was a human being, but Molly didn't think it was the best idea to use her as part of the experiment.

_It would hurt him…._

It was just as surprising as a security blanket suddenly gaining consciousness and declaring that a ham sandwich with a side of chips would be lovely. Molly tightened the blankets tighter around her as she heard the flimsy lock open, and felt Sherlock slide into bed beside her, thankfully keeping a respectable distance and thankfully keeping silent. Despite the tension, Molly turned around and faced him, giving him a small peck on the cheek, "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Molly."

The next morning as Molly went on her usual morning walk (well every morning she didn't happen to have work) she ran right into the one and only Elliot Browning. Something told her—his nervous manner, the way he seemed to have purposely avoided knocking her down despite his superior stature—told her that this wasn't a chance meeting. Some part of her mind also admonished her for thinking of him as the one and only when there had to be at least a dozen Elliot Brownings in the world. Both were rather common names. She dragged herself to the immediate present in time for Elliot to actually begin speaking to her.

_You know, it doesn't have to be a one off, he was actually quite good in bed…._

"Oh, Molly hello!" He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck "Funny meeting—"

"Elliot, we're still in my neighborhood." Molly sighed, resigned to the fact that this was what her morning walk would become, "Cut the bull. I haven't had coffee yet so shall we?"

"Oh yeah! Uh sure let's just go…." Elliot trailed off as Molly walked past him and into the shop, placing their orders quickly before sitting down. Elliot leaned forward, his eyes darting around the room, "So uh…how have you been?"

Molly gave him a small smile as the waitress placed their coffees in front of them, "Good."

"And him?"

"Brilliant as always." Obviously a closed off and hurried nature wasn't enough to chase Elliot off.

He rubbed his forehead, his eyebrows furrowing, and Molly knew he was about to really get to what he thought was the heart of the matter, "Molly…I just…I just don't know what happened. You were just so kind—and it's hard to forget you. You're a wonderful woman, you're sweet, kind, beautiful and…I just can't do it. I don't care if you have a boyfriend, in fact, I think he's a shit boyfriend if you go around shagging blokes behind his back and are sad all the time."

"I'm not—"

"Yes you are. And Molly—I've stopped drinking. I've been going to those meetings things, collecting days, all that stuff…it's because of you I want to be a good man for you."

"You are a good man. I'm the bitch here. I ruined a good friendship." Molly somehow found herself saying, cursing herself for being nice because it would only encourage him.

"Well you wouldn't have been straying if nothing was wrong."

_Everything's wrong, always._

Molly knew that if she explained her situation with Sherlock then she would simply be adding fuel to the fire, "We're fine, Elliot." She sipped her coffee, refusing to look anywhere but his eyes, "We're fine."

"Does he know?"

"Know what?"

"Bloody hell, Molly, he's supposed to be some sort of genius, wouldn't he have 'deduced' the fact that you shagged me?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He knows exactly how meaningless it was. I don't fancy you. So please stop calling me, texting me, and 'accidentally' bumping into me. It's annoying, it borders on harassment, and I can't bear it right now—" Molly placed her money on the table and left, her hopes of not being pursued quickly dashed with Elliot catching up to her, grabbing her arm.

"Molly, we had a connection."

"No we had sex. Huge difference, mate. Now let go of my hand before we make a scene." He accidentally pressed down on a bruise—that god damned doorknob had it out for her—causing her to squeak out in pain."

Elliot wrenched up her sleeve upon this discovery "Where did that bruise come from? Look if he's hurting you then it doesn't matter who he is I'll—"

"Elliot listen to yourself." Molly pulled away from him slipping her sleeve back into place, "I'm not some victim, and you sure as hell aren't my knight in shining armor coming to save the day. So. Leave. Me. Alone."

"You know I can't do that—"

"I can't stand a man who doesn't respect a lady's wishes." Molly snapped, "So get the hell away from me." Molly practically darted into her building and up the steps, almost running into Sherlock as he left the flat. She tried to brush past him but he stopped taking her by the shoulders.

"Your morning walk went on for far longer than usual." He spoke in explanation for his presence, "You met Elliot on the way." His eyes darkened, "You had coffee."

"Yes. Yes we did. Elliot decided to celebrate sobriety with me." Molly rubbed her forehead.

"And now you're distressed."

"Yes."

He emitted a low growl and was about to brush past her, but she caught him, a hand on his chest, "Molly, let me—"

"Sherlock, love, it's nothing." She took his hand, and unlocked the door, leading him back inside with all the calmness she could muster. Once they were inside, she peeled her jumper off and proceeded to pour herself a glass of orange juice and sit on the countertop. Sherlock hovered at the door a moment later before crossing the room and placing a hand at the small of her back, rubbing circles.

"I don't know how to do this." He said at last.

_You don't either._

"I know." Molly inhaled deeply and pressed the glass against her temple with her eyes closed "And that's okay."

"It doesn't seem okay."

"Sherlock, what do you want me to say? Do you want me to give you a diagram you can commit to memory about why you've suddenly developed feelings most people figure out while teenagers and in their early twenties? Or why I am the subject of your sudden bizarre change? It probably has to do with proximity. I'm here and you seemed to have discovered heterosexuality."

"You're operating under the assumption that these…these thoughts and feelings and wants will go away if I'm away from you" Sherlock's hand tightened at her waist, and he sat up on the counter next to Molly to draw her closer, "Even when I was on the other side of the world, I could not banish the thought of you from my mind. I shouldn't have visited at all when I was dead but I—you kept me from going mad—and at the same time drove me completely mad. Trust me when I say that if they could go away, I would have gotten rid of them" Sherlock pressed a kiss to Molly's neck, before catching her gaze "And I'm terrified."

"Of what?"

"You were abducted because of me. Imagine what they could do if they knew—" His face screwed up, and Molly could almost see the interworking parts of his mind trying to figure out what words needed to be strung together. "—if they knew I held…deep affections for you—it would be putting a target on your back…."

_Sounds okay to you, huh Molly?_

"Sherlock, I can handle more than you give me credit for." Molly poked his nose with a grin, "So I think I should keep you around, kay? Besides." Molly jumped down and put her glass in the sink, "Being abducted was a fascinating study of character on my part. I can also smell chloroform a mile away now and I'm clever, so I think that my worst enemy will continue to be myself, as it always has been. I could die or be disfigured horribly in a traffic accident or trip and break my neck on something—"

"Stop—"

"No Sherlock, I won't. I'm not scared of dying. I never was." Molly was inevitably selfish, finding comfort in this strange man, using him in the end. She was too far gone though. She returned to him, kissing him sweetly before muttering against his lips, "You make me happy, Sherlock. Remember? So you will not take that away out of fear or out of keeping me safe or any of that nonsense."

Sherlock kissed her forehead and then her hands, "Stop talking about dying." He commanded.

_Yes but we'll still think about it, won't we?_

There came a time where Molly had to leave Sherlock and go to work. It was then that an extraordinarily annoying familiar face to rear her ugly head, "Hello I'm Kitty Riley you must be Molly Hooper, tell me is it true that—"

"I'm not making comments." Molly checked her phone in order to pretend to be busy before continuing on her walk.

"But Miss Hooper, you're living with the famous Sherlock Holmes surely you must have—"

"Nope."

"Are you in a sexual relationship with Mr. Holmes?"

Molly froze, turning towards the reporter with a small smile gracing her lips, "I do not like people much. _That's _why I work on dead people. I am a private person. So I'm not going to let you follow me around badgering me with questions that the world frankly doesn't care about. Go bother someone else to fish your bloody career out of the toilet after your monumental fuck up."

Kitty's eyes narrowed and she pulled out what she most likely thought was a trump card, "You're on medication for your mental health. You've tried to kill yourself recently. Sherlock is not an easy man to put up with but if he's been forcing you to resort to knives and pills, darling I assure you that—" She was cut off by an incredibly hard punch to the face, knocking her to the ground.

Rolling her eyes at the gaping bystanders, Molly straddled Kitty and drew her close by the collar of her jacket, "Never insult him again. If you come near me again, I will file for a restraining order." Molly also reached into her pocket and took the recording device, "Please refrain from contacting me."

Standing up, Molly whirled around and walked away as if nothing happened, even though her insides were churning. Was that too hasty and impulsive? Would she find a way to bring Molly into the fold somehow? Why the hell did everyone think that her problems had to do with Sherlock? Her life didn't revolve around the man, and he certainly wasn't the source of her misery but a pleasant break from it. He didn't hurt her, he never hurt her. Everyone else treated her like a glass figurine, waiting for him to crush her beneath his boot, but it wasn't going to happen. If anything she had found all his triggers, all his weaknesses and she could hurt him in a heartbeat. Of course, she didn't want to, never wanted to, but she could.

Sherlock was at the morgue waiting for her "New case—your hand. Tell me."

John gave a small wave, glancing at Sherlock, "Hi Molly."

"Answer."

"I punched an annoying woman—Kitty Riley was her name I think."

Sherlock grinned—actually properly grinned. John was laughing more at Sherlock's reaction, sidling up beside Molly and wrapping an arm around her shoulder, "You really know a way to a man's heart, Molly Hooper, now let's get some ice on that, shall we?"

**Thank you all for reviewing! And for those who haven't: Oh dear me, is that a little box below? It must be!**


	10. Bunnies, Kittens, And Secrets

**Okay, I know it's kind of been a while, but hey, it's Christmas…ish, I actually have some time, and I decided to knock out an incredibly depressing and incredibly unChristmassy chapter with a bit of happy fluff in the middle...so it's sort of like an Oreo, I guess. Being a proper Christian (actually more of an agnostic who likes a good party and happy family time) I will save what I got for Christmas until the end. Warning! There are triggering things mentioned here! If you are triggered by stuff...wait why have you managed to read this far? Well you've been properly warned, I guess. Oh and I don't own Sherlock. Oh and there might be some tinsy spoilers for the cult classic film ****_Bunny Lake Is Missing. _**

**Updates are going to become a lot less frequent now that I have an actual deadline on an original project. To think, someday you guys might be reading something with my real name on it, or declaring that it's pure shit before throwing it back at the shelf, having no idea that I'm also the puny little fanfiction author Cloudcuckoolandhasaqueen.**

Sherlock found it strange that Molly's random surge of courage she displayed after her attempt to terminate her own existence slowly ebbed away. He knew that she tried her best to hide it, but her face would crumble a little when she seemed to simply break, falling to pieces, but ultimately holding them together to go on with her day. Gone was the woman who would punch Kitty Riley or face down his brother in an almost bored manner and she was replaced with the meek woman he had known longer. She didn't even give suggestions for strange causes of death anymore, preferring to keep to herself and get things done. At night, she would curl up in a ball, turning away from him. Even when he initated contact, wrapping his arm around her, he wouldn't receive much of a reaction. He was quick to research everything he could about depression and anxiety. Usually he hated anything that had to do with psychology, considering it less of a science and more of a catelog of human imperfection, but he wanted to know everything everyone ever had to say about it. From this information, he figured out that Molly was probably about to suffer from what they called an 'episode'.

"I'm afraid." Molly whispered one night.

"Of what?" Sherlock wanted to help her, wanted to protect her, but he was only armed with what he considered pseudoscience and her psychiatrist's number.

"Everything." Sherlock tightened his grip on her waist, "And of nothing."

He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck, finding that he had no words. Comfort wasn't among his skillset. Sherlock couldn't very well tell her that there was nothing to be afraid of when there were plenty of things for a human to rationally fear, he could only be there as she tried to sort herself out. According to the internet, this could last days, weeks, or even months. His Molly suddenly became more machinelike than he could have ever claimed to be and in that he realized she had been like this before when he simply _wasn't paying attention. _He berated himself for it, for overlooking her for such a great number of reasons, but this one had been the most dangerous. Sherlock could feel the scars of burns and cuts that marred her upper thighs where they couldn't be seen. There was always a small part of his constantly roving constantly analyzing mind that would take note of every time his hands would wander across a new patch of mutilated skin, and how Molly's breath would hitch in pain.

Tonight there were two new burns and Sherlock knew there was a need to talk, "Molly. You cannot keep doing this."

"I know I shouldn't." Came her soft, despondent reply.

"Then don't."

For the first time in a week, Molly rolled over to face him, a tiny smile on her lips, "If things were that simple, Sherlock Holmes, you would be perfectly normal and perfectly boring."

"It's unhealthy to wish yourself harm."

"If you knew what I know, you'd hate me too."

Sherlock reached across, taking a strand of her hair and tucking it behind her ear, "I already know everything, Molly Hooper and I highly doubt I could ever possibly hate you."

Molly sighed deeply, her sad smile returning. Sherlock hated that smile. It was the smile she wore when she knew he didn't understand something sentimental, a variant of the apologetic one she would give to strangers he deduced on the street within earshot, "There's always something, Sherlock." She sat up abruptly, "I don't think either of us will be sleeping tonight. Do we have onions?"

Leaning on his elbows, Sherlock watched as Molly methodically chopped up the onions on the counter, and turned to throw them in the pan. Her hair was pulled back in her usual bedtime braid, but several wisps and strands had escaped, displaying an uncharacteristic carelessness in the endeavor. She wore a long black shirt with some ridiculous metal band's name on it and pink Hello Kitty pants, which was completely normal but the lack of dressing gown thrown over it wasn't. He barely registered Molly putting a plate full of onions on toast as he noted the heavier circles around her eyes or the weight loss.

"I hate it when you do that, you know." Her voice interrupted the process, and he found that she was staring right back at him, refusing to avoid eye contact. Before he could demand clarification, she continued, " I mean, when you look at me like I'm some sort of specimen in the lab or I'm gum on the bottom of a shoe or I'm a random person having an affair with my boss."

"I assure you that if you were having sexual relations with anyone other than me, I'd be very much aware of it." Sherlock responded dryly.

"Bleck, you know what I mean, or at least I think you do anyway." Molly rubbed her forehead, taking a bite from her toast, "It makes me feel like you're taking me apart. Makes me feel bare, exposed, vulnerable..."

"You're used to hiding, even from me." Sherlock made an attempt at speaking carefully, "And...I make you feel bad?"

"No!" Molly shook her head, "No, no I didn't mean that at all!"

"Then what did you mean?"

"I don't know...I meant that it's a bit weird feeling, having someone who knows nearly everything about you."

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he tried to avoid the confusion that was flaring up, "You know nearly everything about me and I don't feel odd."

Molly rolled her eyes, "Yeah, like you've told me everything."

"I have." He felt strange, whispering everything about his past to the woman beside him in the dead of the night, who always intently listened to him without comment, judgment, or pity, but he had because he trusted Molly. Night after night he would fill in the gaps of her knowledge of him with his thoughts his _feelings _of his overbearing childhood, his drug using years, his inability to process anything that wasn't almost purely analytical. But for Molly to doubt him, to believe that he kept things secret from her was a surprise to him. Without exaggeration, he hadn't had an easy life, and it was only with her that he felt at ease speaking of it.

"Oh..." Molly suddenly found her toast incredibly interesting, "But you see, it's still different. I know everything about you because you willingly told me. You know almost everything about me because you figured it out. You...you looked at my medical records, you read my bloody diaries, you deduced me to pieces time after time and I didn't have any choice in the matter."

Sherlock hadn't thought of that before. Would Molly have ever told him that she tried to commit suicide or was addicted to pills of her own volition? It almost seemed to devalue the level of trust he assumed Molly had in him. It was deeply troubling to say the least. "Then tell me."

"Not tonight, Sherlock."

Molly's episode ended after another week, but she still wasn't the shining light that Sherlock had come to expect from her. It wasn't as if being cheerful was a requirement to become a morgue attendant or pathologist of any sort to do her job, but he hated an unhappy Molly. He filled the flat with potted flowers and plants to increase oxygen and the number of scents around her, despite hating it, he kept the drapes open, allowing the light inside, he made sure she ate well (oh the irony) and had a fair amount of exercise as well. Sherlock was wondering what else he could possibly do for her when she stumbled across a perfect thing to bring.

When he walked through the door, she smiled at him, turning to wash her hands of the tomatoes she had been chopping. She crossed the room and kissed him gently on the cheek, "I'm making tomato sandwiches." As she turned away, Sherlock automatically grabbed her arm, forcing her to stay in place, "What is it, Sherlock?"

He unbuttoned his coat and reached into his pocket, pulling out the squirming kitten that had been wriggling around and clawing at him in vain attempts to escape. Upon seeing it, Molly's expression immediately brightened, reaching out to take the tiny creature from his hands. She was a white female cat with a puglike face and large yellow eyes, with a couple of black splotches like ink had been spilled on her. This unusual looking kitten was found in a box, well within sight. While he probably would have deduced the situation and taken her with little thought anyway, the "FREE KITTENS" written sloppily on the side in permanent marker confirmed that the cat could be taken.

"Oh, adorable." Molly did a quick check beneath the tail, "And a girl too. Toby might like you...he might not either, you never know with him but aren't you just precious?"

At this moment, Sherlock looked down at his feet, not knowing how to retreat from the moment. He had never actually given Molly anything. Conduct in gift giving had never been his strong suit, in fact, he had absolutely no idea what to do now that the kitten was delivered from his pocket and into her palm. Molly herself was tittering about the kitchen, estimating her new kitten's age, making a list of things she would have to get for her, all while never letting go of the new arrival as if she had a newborn baby. Silly sentimental Molly was back, even if it would only be for a few hours, a few days... Lingering on such things was counterproductive. She was pleased, therefore she would stay, and that would mean that she wouldn't want to leave him all alone.

That night, Molly still cried her strange little cry, where only her shaky breath, heaving shoulders, and the morning puffy eyes gave her away. Sherlock didn't understand why she continued to stifle her crying when it was obvious that she was. All he could do was wrap his arm around her, and whisper everything he could to keep her from leaving the bed, from leaving _him. _This was probably why he avoided any romantic relationships for so long. He pursued them with every bit as much energy as he did an intellectual endeavor like a case or a puzzle. He was growing obsessed and dependent on it (on Molly) like the adrenaline rushes, like proving that he was the cleverest of them all, like heroin or cocaine. Withdrawal at this point would be incredibly nasty.

Two weeks passed before the novelty of the kitten, now named Debra (Why, he could not fathom) began to wear off. Toby hissed at her a couple times, but other than that, the two cats got along if only for the sake of their owner. Molly's moods swung wildly, but she was never mad at him, hardly even irritated with him most days, allowing Sherlock to return to his more erratic behaviors without fear of offending her. Once, she was watching an old movie, and she gently patted the seat beside her. Despite the fact that she knew he was horrible watching things with her (rude commentary, ruining her willing suspension of disbelief, talking about tacky costumes) she wanted him there at that moment.

"What movie is this? It's obviously made in the sixties, black and white..."

"It's called Bunny Lake Is Missing. It's from 1965 to be exact." Molly replied softly, "It's supposed to be a mystery, a psychological thriller."

"Well obviously the daughter doesn't exist at all. That woman must be delusional."

"Are you so sure, Sherlock?" She smirked, and that smirk widened as he watched the brother throw a doll house into the back of his car.

"Oh."

"What's that, Sherlock? Did my movie outsmart you?" She giggled, leaning against his shoulder, "It's okay. I never even saw the 'doesn't exist' plot until it was spelled out the first time around."

Molly continued to chatter with him throughout the movie, having obviously seen it at least six times before. Why she would have wanted to see it after the mystery had been solved was a mystery in of itself, but whatever pleased Molly was welcome to him. Sherlock personally found the movie rather boring, aside from the complete mental breakdown at the end of it. He found the main female lead for once behaved calmly and rationally, keeping the brother distracted while she tried to find a way to get her daughter to safety. That _almost _made up for the fact that she gave her child such a ridiculous name. When Sherlock made that sentiment known, Molly snorted.

"And 'Sherlock' is such a winner?"

"Better than being named after a rabbit."

"Well maybe I should name a girl Bunny, just to be contrary."

"You would bestow that on a child simply to do something that I do not advise? That would be a bit not good, don't you think?"

"What? It'd be my kid, I could call her Albus if I wanted." Molly prodded his shoulder, "Albus Amelia Hooper. I like it!"

"Still better than Sherlock and Mycroft, I suppose." Sherlock conceded, although he found himself bothered by one part of her statement, "Why Hooper?"

"Hmmm?"

"Why would your hypothetical child's surname be Hooper?"

"Because it's my last name. I thought I recall you being a genius." Molly giggled.

"Isn't it traditional for the child to take the man's last name?"

"Traditional isn't my cup of tea. If I had a child, they would have my last name. it's just the way I'd prefer it. I think I'd deserve that much after having it growing in me like a parasite for nine months and being in labor for hours. I don't particularly want to have a child nor do I want to get married."

"Well it's good we're in agreement about those two things then." Sherlock replied stiffly before turning his attention to the horrible effects the next movie Molly put in had.

It was when she got home the next night that he saw something different in her. She smiled before setting her things down, and crossing the room to kiss him. Usually, Sherlock had time to mentally prepare for the sensation of her lips against his, but without the warning, he wasn't ready for the flood of thoughts, observations, or emotions that flitted through his mind. As soon as he came to terms with the fact that Molly was kissing him on the lips instead of the cheek, she had withdrawn.

Molly settled in Sherlock's lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. It was the position she assumed so often for the illusion of comfort and complete safety, one Sherlock could never say anyone expected of him before. But that's what Molly did; she made him capable of things he never even thought about before. In return, Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around her and held her firmly in place, waiting for what was to come, whether it was simply talking about her bad day (It had been particularly horrible) her run in with Elliot (He would have to do something about that idiot soon. Who would have thought that the man's new addiction would be Molly?) or finally divulging a piece of her that Sherlock might or might not know.

"He hurt me." Molly's voice was so soft he almost didn't hear it.

Sherlock's grasp tightened, eliciting a small whimper, "Who did?" He felt the words no the _growl _leave through his teeth.

"It was a long time ago." She continued on, as if she didn't hear the now seething Sherlock, "I had first started seeing him, Dr. Fletcher, that is, after I tried... At first he was nice, a bit daft, but nice. But then...he started mixing something in my tea and I couldn't respond quickly or anything and I would be so dazed and confused. Classic date rape drugs I know now, but back then I was just...frightened. He started with touching...my legs especially. For three sessions he seemed fixated on them. Then my breasts and then...well I know I should have left, but my Dad seemed so pleased with him, they would have drinks after work together, they were friends they...it would have hurt him so soon after I tried to kill myself. These excuses sound so silly now, but they were all that played in my head."

"He raped you."

"He raped me." Molly confirmed, her voice barely above a whisper, "Oh...God...I've never said that out loud before."

By then, Sherlock was seeing red, almost unable to hear anything else Molly would have said, but by then she had fallen silent, her entire body trembling. He would find this doctor, he would find him and oh he would torture him with every single trick he picked up while taking down Moriarty's network. Sherlock would spend days, no weeks, bringing the man to the brink of death and stopping just long enough to make sure he felt pain again. And then, then he would kill him, he would rip out his entrails or cut him to pieces with the edges of a broken wine bottle—

"That's...not the worst part." Molly whispered, bringing Sherlock down from his rage enough for him to stroke her back in a comforting manner, "He would uhm...give me extra medication when I asked for it...unmarked, save for his name. Anything I wanted, he would give me. So uhm..." She moved up to whisper in Sherlock's ear, "I fixed tea...and...he overdosed...so I waited until he was dead before I called...and said I panicked and couldn't move. I put the prescriptions in the locked part of his desk. He overdosed by prescribing himself medicines under the guise of giving it to me...open and shut case, yeah?"

"Kinder than what I would have done." Sherlock replied honestly, pressing a kiss above her ear, "Thank you Molly...for trusting me with this."

"P-please don't-"

"Don't tell a soul? That's a given. If this is what gives you such a twisted hate of yourself, then I assure you what happened was not your fault, any of it."

She sat up unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears that she refused to allow to fall. When one finally did, Sherlock brushed her cheek, kissing it, then her nose, and then her mouth. Her colleagues often referred to her as Mousy Molly much to Sherlock's displeasure, for being small and quiet. Despite its alliterative appeal, Molly Hooper wasn't a mouse at all. She was a broken bird. He had only taken one case during this time, among the dozens piling up. It seemed that Sherlock Holmes had done what no one ever thought possible of him; he slowed down into domesticity, almost being captured by Molly's sour air.

**o.o That got REEAAALLLY dark and for that I apologize.**

**So what have I gained in this season of giving?**

**1. A heartwarming experience volunteering at a soup kitchen (I'd do it more often if I didn't want to be broke myself)**

**2. Time with family who are starting to get up there in the years.**

**3. Five pounds **

**4. Some new art supplies and books about writing, meaning that my family actually support my decisions.**

**5. A thesaurus! Finally! **

**6. Some pretty cool bracelets and necklaces.**

**7. A hat and a bunch of hair products (Grandma? Are you trying to tell me something?)**

**8. A TARDIS sweater that my grandmother knitted by hand! EEEEPPP! I love it!**

**9. A sock full of kisses! (...not even kidding)**

**10. Grapefruit juice.**


End file.
